I have been in this horribly amazing land for three weeks and five days. Just yesterday I was given this almost empty journal after two people here said it would be to my benefit.
As I have never written in a journal before how am I supposed to know what to write. At the best of times I can think a complete load of rubbish.
On the very first page it has written in some beautiful old school script, “Stars always shine brightest at night.” And underneath I have been told is the same thing written in the old language. Anyway it looks very nice. The book itself is made from leather and is hand made by my grandmother. Not sure how she made the paper but it is stitched into the leather from and back with some big leather stitches.
My grandmother is one that told me to keep one and said she always used to keep one and wrote in it everyday. However the Polyphant told me that I would be unable to take my Journal home. Apparently that doesn’t matter though, seems a bit pointless to me. But, on the brightside he did also tell me that a journal is a way to put on paper what is already stored safely in your head, so if I need to remember anything all I have to do is think hard.
Everything seems to be hard.
Anyway, this is the Land of the Dead, this is where some of the dead, retire is as good a word as any, retire to. It took me a couple of weeks to be covinced that I am not dead. They did eventually convince me, but I am not sure. They said to me, “So Seren are you dead?” I said, “No” and they said, “Well there you go then” This is the some total of their argument, oh yes and the little bit where they added as if it was an after thought, “You would know if you were dead, trust us on this”
I will reserve judgement. I think that is enough for entry number one of probably one.
Sunday 28 August 2011
Saturday 27 August 2011
Three Fourteen am
If it is at all possible to be plagued by a time i think I am, 3.14am the time I seem to wake most mornings. I say wake, what actually happens is I am awake and this time seems to be the single minute in the dark I look at the time.
Shall we investigate a few possibilities for this one time, for example, Am I being drawn to 3.14am because I was wronged or have wronged at this time and my subconscious is reminding me of it. Or maybe Plasfort the defender of Arcadia has a laser pointed at this time through the aeon's of space, time and Caesar, the laser can only penetrate our reality at 3.14am to communicate its SOS or disgust to us, I will try to communicate back next time.
Is my head trying to help me with the things I can write about as I don’t seem to get any time recently to continue with writing my Pulitzer prize winning novel all about Faeries. However 3.14am is allowing me to write complete crap like this and keeps my brain firmly wired into whatever it is that makes, or allows, this drivel to be written.
Is it to be a biblical reference, the book of Job 3:14 in basic English says, “With the Kings and the wise one of the earth, who put up great houses for themselves.” Still looking for a theological explanation the book of revelation 3;14 says, “…These things saith the Amen, the faithful and the true witness, the beginning of the creation of god.” What a trip.
If you google 3.14am, all the results appear to be the times at which things have been posted on various blogs, You Tube and or anything else apart from the glaringly obvious, Vagina* Suicide at 3.14am.
Let me tell what I think it is and you can quote me on this, “it is a pain in the arse”.
Shall we investigate a few possibilities for this one time, for example, Am I being drawn to 3.14am because I was wronged or have wronged at this time and my subconscious is reminding me of it. Or maybe Plasfort the defender of Arcadia has a laser pointed at this time through the aeon's of space, time and Caesar, the laser can only penetrate our reality at 3.14am to communicate its SOS or disgust to us, I will try to communicate back next time.
Is my head trying to help me with the things I can write about as I don’t seem to get any time recently to continue with writing my Pulitzer prize winning novel all about Faeries. However 3.14am is allowing me to write complete crap like this and keeps my brain firmly wired into whatever it is that makes, or allows, this drivel to be written.
Is it to be a biblical reference, the book of Job 3:14 in basic English says, “With the Kings and the wise one of the earth, who put up great houses for themselves.” Still looking for a theological explanation the book of revelation 3;14 says, “…These things saith the Amen, the faithful and the true witness, the beginning of the creation of god.” What a trip.
If you google 3.14am, all the results appear to be the times at which things have been posted on various blogs, You Tube and or anything else apart from the glaringly obvious, Vagina* Suicide at 3.14am.
Let me tell what I think it is and you can quote me on this, “it is a pain in the arse”.
Friday 26 August 2011
Unsocial Techno Wrangler
jest, blessed the beef strangler wrangling thief
mite might plight his flight
the high plains drifter ran the yellow bella fella through the sifter
warm storm just beform
my chief wig wam nice tent
arrow furrows sat a hat
below the mobile mast
giving bars of 3G high speed data feed
the strangler the drifter and the chief are unsocial pals
very sterry on their black droid pod iBerry
theres no app for me
mite might plight his flight
the high plains drifter ran the yellow bella fella through the sifter
warm storm just beform
my chief wig wam nice tent
arrow furrows sat a hat
below the mobile mast
giving bars of 3G high speed data feed
the strangler the drifter and the chief are unsocial pals
very sterry on their black droid pod iBerry
theres no app for me
Thursday 25 August 2011
Is Reality TV Real?
What with the modern enhancements they have with voice tuning and Lycra, tofu and paramedics skills at ice skating rinks, who needs an imagination.
Gone are the days of trying to figure out that the butler did it and small pieces of paper wrapped around your fingers. Angela Lansbury lasted for years, Agatha Christie managed to have a Murder wherever Poirot or Marple were drinking tea out of fine china.
I blame Eric Arthur Blair who in 1948 managed to redesign Television programming for 60 years in the future. Big Brother is watching, George you may be a genius in the literacy department and an all round good egg, according to the Always Correct Wikipedia, but I blame you.
However I could quite as easily blame Delia Smith for Cant Cook Wont Cook, in that case don't cook. Mr Hilton billionaire hotelier with a pug for a daughter, I blame you for three in a bed, booooooo. Not to mention Chris Torville and Jane Dean for winning British gold medal a million years ago at the Olympics, I blame you for Singing to the stars on ice. However bringing it back to bare bones John Logie Baird, I think we can actually blame you, all of the above is your fault.
Media types, those people who commission this stuff have now be grabbing onto the smallest idea, Reality, for years and years. “I have an Idea for a TV programme, lets stick a camera on the end of a ferrets nose and follow it wherever it goes.” A hit on some obscure little Mongolian subscription based cabellite TV station” Bonuses all around and then lets syndicate it to the rest of the planet, granted America will buy anything, except Cheryl Cole, I have a stick up my hole.
In answer to the question, Is Reality TV Real, No. Unless you think The Only Way Is Essex is a fly on the wall.
Rant over.
Gone are the days of trying to figure out that the butler did it and small pieces of paper wrapped around your fingers. Angela Lansbury lasted for years, Agatha Christie managed to have a Murder wherever Poirot or Marple were drinking tea out of fine china.
I blame Eric Arthur Blair who in 1948 managed to redesign Television programming for 60 years in the future. Big Brother is watching, George you may be a genius in the literacy department and an all round good egg, according to the Always Correct Wikipedia, but I blame you.
However I could quite as easily blame Delia Smith for Cant Cook Wont Cook, in that case don't cook. Mr Hilton billionaire hotelier with a pug for a daughter, I blame you for three in a bed, booooooo. Not to mention Chris Torville and Jane Dean for winning British gold medal a million years ago at the Olympics, I blame you for Singing to the stars on ice. However bringing it back to bare bones John Logie Baird, I think we can actually blame you, all of the above is your fault.
Media types, those people who commission this stuff have now be grabbing onto the smallest idea, Reality, for years and years. “I have an Idea for a TV programme, lets stick a camera on the end of a ferrets nose and follow it wherever it goes.” A hit on some obscure little Mongolian subscription based cabellite TV station” Bonuses all around and then lets syndicate it to the rest of the planet, granted America will buy anything, except Cheryl Cole, I have a stick up my hole.
In answer to the question, Is Reality TV Real, No. Unless you think The Only Way Is Essex is a fly on the wall.
Rant over.
Gibberish Yellow Fish
More indepth definition
Gibberish Yellow Fish nonsense, commonly made up by me to illustrate nothing. When seen from space it is very small, predominantly brown in colour with a speckled underside. You know which part is the underside because it is speckled.
If you talk to the Yellow Fish it will allow you to answer your questions without it even moving it’s metaphoric pouting lips. This is just as well because you would be stupid if you thought a fish could talk. Fish can’t even breathe the air in our own little atmosphere.
However if you are aware of the Little Golden Fish from the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm you may get confused as they reference a golden yellow fish. Not the same thing by a long shot, the Brothers Grimm Yellow Fish never talked gibberish it only had the power to grant you a wish, from a fish, get real, the fish belongs in a dish.
When you are on a bus or train tightly packed into the persons next to you and have the unpleasant odour of unclean rotting human flesh waft it’s way from somewhere to that place it doesn’t belong, you always speak to yourself. You believe it is a conversation you are having with yourself but in almost reality you are talking to the Gibberish Yellow Fish. And if you recall the conversation you are having, have had or know you will have with yourself, you get answers.
The Yellow Fish.
Gibberish Yellow Fish nonsense, commonly made up by me to illustrate nothing. When seen from space it is very small, predominantly brown in colour with a speckled underside. You know which part is the underside because it is speckled.
If you talk to the Yellow Fish it will allow you to answer your questions without it even moving it’s metaphoric pouting lips. This is just as well because you would be stupid if you thought a fish could talk. Fish can’t even breathe the air in our own little atmosphere.
However if you are aware of the Little Golden Fish from the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm you may get confused as they reference a golden yellow fish. Not the same thing by a long shot, the Brothers Grimm Yellow Fish never talked gibberish it only had the power to grant you a wish, from a fish, get real, the fish belongs in a dish.
When you are on a bus or train tightly packed into the persons next to you and have the unpleasant odour of unclean rotting human flesh waft it’s way from somewhere to that place it doesn’t belong, you always speak to yourself. You believe it is a conversation you are having with yourself but in almost reality you are talking to the Gibberish Yellow Fish. And if you recall the conversation you are having, have had or know you will have with yourself, you get answers.
The Yellow Fish.
Wednesday 24 August 2011
I got thoroughly pissed off the other night when I left the house,
I turned to the right and then to the left and then into a mouse,
Dear me it was like a trip in the sixties,
Pink elephants, champagne foutains and surfing pixies,
Blind in my mist a complete mind fog,
My mouse, my house now have a bullfrog,
Billy by name and an all round ringer,
A baratone voice my frog is a singer,
Dont get down and dont feel like, you know, sad,
Baratone maybe, but sings like my dad,
All well and good if your dad is Robbie,
But no he isn’t and singing isn’t even a hobby,
But glitz and glamour Billy will need,
Until the trip subsides and my eyes bleed,
For the sixties and stuff made everything hurt
Kill more cells makes me just as thick as Albert,
Black rain, white noise listen to the air,
Faerie dust, red baboons bums no hair,
Change the channel to porn and sleaze,
Want to sleep and catch some zee’s.
I turned to the right and then to the left and then into a mouse,
Dear me it was like a trip in the sixties,
Pink elephants, champagne foutains and surfing pixies,
Blind in my mist a complete mind fog,
My mouse, my house now have a bullfrog,
Billy by name and an all round ringer,
A baratone voice my frog is a singer,
Dont get down and dont feel like, you know, sad,
Baratone maybe, but sings like my dad,
All well and good if your dad is Robbie,
But no he isn’t and singing isn’t even a hobby,
But glitz and glamour Billy will need,
Until the trip subsides and my eyes bleed,
For the sixties and stuff made everything hurt
Kill more cells makes me just as thick as Albert,
Black rain, white noise listen to the air,
Faerie dust, red baboons bums no hair,
Change the channel to porn and sleaze,
Want to sleep and catch some zee’s.
Tuesday 23 August 2011
Scenic Beauty and Song
The dyke a boy once pulled his finger out
On realising his mistake he started to shout
Run like the wind if your wind is quick
Stopped by a local who told him he was thick
Offa made this dyke oh but many years ago
Maybe to keep out the Welsh no one will know
For Offa managed to separate England from Wales
A mammoth feat all heard the local hales
Because he put beauty, poetry and song
In a land that true people belong
On the other he put all who have been thrown away
England, its people are still separate today
To glance over the pathetic mound
And dream about the scenic beauty and sound
On realising his mistake he started to shout
Run like the wind if your wind is quick
Stopped by a local who told him he was thick
Offa made this dyke oh but many years ago
Maybe to keep out the Welsh no one will know
For Offa managed to separate England from Wales
A mammoth feat all heard the local hales
Because he put beauty, poetry and song
In a land that true people belong
On the other he put all who have been thrown away
England, its people are still separate today
To glance over the pathetic mound
And dream about the scenic beauty and sound
Sunday 21 August 2011
Character BBQ
Banshee Faerie, Mildly Scary opted for the Lamb
Delemere Smythe, Dancing to the Jive wanted scorched ham
Mr Hester, Purple Faced Jester acted a little edgy
Big Fat Dave, Emerging from his cave unusually was a veggie
Buster Merryweed, Drug enduced greed wanted a plate of thirds
Master Two Tails, Listened to the wails swolled whole the herds
Techno Wrangler, Beef Stangler ate his own stakes
Whilst Chief Wig Wam, Opted for the ham didn’t eat fakes
Dyke Boy, King Offa’s Toy munched on some salad
Sister Poy, religious toy was looking for a mallard
Life Subscribed, Best Decscibed the bloke doing the hand jive
All have had, except for chad a party finishing at five.
Thank you me
Delemere Smythe, Dancing to the Jive wanted scorched ham
Mr Hester, Purple Faced Jester acted a little edgy
Big Fat Dave, Emerging from his cave unusually was a veggie
Buster Merryweed, Drug enduced greed wanted a plate of thirds
Master Two Tails, Listened to the wails swolled whole the herds
Techno Wrangler, Beef Stangler ate his own stakes
Whilst Chief Wig Wam, Opted for the ham didn’t eat fakes
Dyke Boy, King Offa’s Toy munched on some salad
Sister Poy, religious toy was looking for a mallard
Life Subscribed, Best Decscibed the bloke doing the hand jive
All have had, except for chad a party finishing at five.
Thank you me
Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch
One of my favourite films is Full Metal Jacket, I especially liked the line in it that bit where the Sargeant says, “Your days of finger banging Mary Jane Rottencrotch behind ….” Genius. And I believe the phrase Mary Jane Rottencrotch is probably a global thing relating to that girl a young and sexually inexperienced soon to be solider has just before he gets shipped off to basic training to become a real man.
Just to put it into context, get an Action Man and call him Hank, Hank will naturally have no rank because he is just about to leave for war. Get a Barbie doll and rename her Mary Jane, dress her up really slutty and then take away some clothes. Take Hank in one and Mary in the other bang them together give them a fake cigarette and Hank will walk off to war.
As a well respected investigative journalist I decided to sell the idea, “Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and all my superiors came down on me hard saying that she doesn’t exist she is an Urban Myth and I will just waste a lot of time and money. Two security guards helped me and my belongings out into the streets and forcefully threw me to the concrete sidwalk. I am no longer well respected and in theory I can still call myself a journalist. All things being weighed up there is nothing to stop me looking for Mary Jane.
I google the phrase, “Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and google says, “About 25500 results in 0.31 seconds” and number 1 result says, “Urban Dictionary: Mary Jane Rottencrotch, The girl next door.” I look out of my window and the girl living to the right of my house is not what I would describe as a girl she is 76 years old and the thought of finger banging her just makes me so sick. The house to the left of me does actually have a rather nice twenty something there and I have heard the name Mary batted around. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Well no it isn’t that easy, found out just a few minutes ago that the Mary next door is a drag queen called Quite Contrary Mary. Pre operative and looking to post but he is already looking as though she would pass until you do actually get up close and he doesn’t shave too often so a good shadow and rouge dont really go together. On to the next line of enquiry, or am I going to leave it at what I have already done and accept the offer I have just received from a thriller writer to research books for them.
Bored
Just to put it into context, get an Action Man and call him Hank, Hank will naturally have no rank because he is just about to leave for war. Get a Barbie doll and rename her Mary Jane, dress her up really slutty and then take away some clothes. Take Hank in one and Mary in the other bang them together give them a fake cigarette and Hank will walk off to war.
As a well respected investigative journalist I decided to sell the idea, “Looking for Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and all my superiors came down on me hard saying that she doesn’t exist she is an Urban Myth and I will just waste a lot of time and money. Two security guards helped me and my belongings out into the streets and forcefully threw me to the concrete sidwalk. I am no longer well respected and in theory I can still call myself a journalist. All things being weighed up there is nothing to stop me looking for Mary Jane.
I google the phrase, “Mary Jane Rottencrotch” and google says, “About 25500 results in 0.31 seconds” and number 1 result says, “Urban Dictionary: Mary Jane Rottencrotch, The girl next door.” I look out of my window and the girl living to the right of my house is not what I would describe as a girl she is 76 years old and the thought of finger banging her just makes me so sick. The house to the left of me does actually have a rather nice twenty something there and I have heard the name Mary batted around. It couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Well no it isn’t that easy, found out just a few minutes ago that the Mary next door is a drag queen called Quite Contrary Mary. Pre operative and looking to post but he is already looking as though she would pass until you do actually get up close and he doesn’t shave too often so a good shadow and rouge dont really go together. On to the next line of enquiry, or am I going to leave it at what I have already done and accept the offer I have just received from a thriller writer to research books for them.
Bored
Thursday 11 August 2011
Going against the grain
It is very apt to have the Raconteurs, Top Yourself in glorious stereo being pumped directly into my ears. Between being on the 19th floor of Westminster Halls in London and then walking to Euston railway station at 7.30 in the morning I could come up with quite a few sure ways to do it, However.
Between jumping 19 stories to the unfortunate roofs below the bijou room, walking under the cliche bus, black cab, car or rickshaw that would be fairly secure. Going against the grain; stomping the pavements to the station would probably do it too. However armed with a coffee out in front of me people just move to the side and give me a wide aisle to have a little bit of simple time.
Watching as the automated hustle of these assembly line commuters moving left and right, stopping and starting. They press the button and wait for the red man to turn green, some jump the starting whistle and make it safely to the other side. Others just jump and stop when the warning horn from the big white van powering, but not willing to stop, towards them. They take that step back to safety to await their next encounter with the bustling metropolis.
The distant sirens from the emergency services get closer and closer, all rubber neck each way to see where it is coming from. The shear magnitude of the buildings and dull grey concrete everywhere makes it difficult to see where the noise is coming from and when you find it you notice the traffic all around are relatively oblivious to it. You shout to your Gibberish Yellow Fish about the idiotic drivers to get the F**k out of the way and all is calm and serene in the world.
Hustle bustle tick tock, old father time dictates when he wants you to attack the morning with your Monday to Friday disregard for everyone you pass en-croute. Never knowing what cards are being dealt to that person you unknowingly walk with everyday. That person who could quite easily live relatively close to you and maybe works within minutes of where you work. The impersonal nature by which your life is run by the bureaucratic hierarchic bean counters that require your targets to be met or you lose your house. That person who on a Monday could be walking ten feet behind you or on a Wednesday is ten feet in front. This is a person who could go out drinking wine spritzers with the lady who walks your dogs whilst you run the rat race. That person who more than lives your exact grey hair producing life.
Go against the grain talk to them not your yellow fish. Mismatch your socks and wear them with comfortable shoes, put your clothes on in the dark and pinch yourself in the morning, don't look in the mirror shouting at yourself, “You are the king of your own story. Argggghhhhh” It is in fact complete mind washing bollocks, your destiny is in the hands of Mr Taxman, Miss Bank Manager, your line supervisor, his or her line supervisor the board of directors of the company you do the mind numbing trudge for.
Stand up and look around, the world is a big place, it is not black and white but if you look close enough you will see shades of grey.
Between jumping 19 stories to the unfortunate roofs below the bijou room, walking under the cliche bus, black cab, car or rickshaw that would be fairly secure. Going against the grain; stomping the pavements to the station would probably do it too. However armed with a coffee out in front of me people just move to the side and give me a wide aisle to have a little bit of simple time.
Watching as the automated hustle of these assembly line commuters moving left and right, stopping and starting. They press the button and wait for the red man to turn green, some jump the starting whistle and make it safely to the other side. Others just jump and stop when the warning horn from the big white van powering, but not willing to stop, towards them. They take that step back to safety to await their next encounter with the bustling metropolis.
The distant sirens from the emergency services get closer and closer, all rubber neck each way to see where it is coming from. The shear magnitude of the buildings and dull grey concrete everywhere makes it difficult to see where the noise is coming from and when you find it you notice the traffic all around are relatively oblivious to it. You shout to your Gibberish Yellow Fish about the idiotic drivers to get the F**k out of the way and all is calm and serene in the world.
Hustle bustle tick tock, old father time dictates when he wants you to attack the morning with your Monday to Friday disregard for everyone you pass en-croute. Never knowing what cards are being dealt to that person you unknowingly walk with everyday. That person who could quite easily live relatively close to you and maybe works within minutes of where you work. The impersonal nature by which your life is run by the bureaucratic hierarchic bean counters that require your targets to be met or you lose your house. That person who on a Monday could be walking ten feet behind you or on a Wednesday is ten feet in front. This is a person who could go out drinking wine spritzers with the lady who walks your dogs whilst you run the rat race. That person who more than lives your exact grey hair producing life.
Go against the grain talk to them not your yellow fish. Mismatch your socks and wear them with comfortable shoes, put your clothes on in the dark and pinch yourself in the morning, don't look in the mirror shouting at yourself, “You are the king of your own story. Argggghhhhh” It is in fact complete mind washing bollocks, your destiny is in the hands of Mr Taxman, Miss Bank Manager, your line supervisor, his or her line supervisor the board of directors of the company you do the mind numbing trudge for.
Stand up and look around, the world is a big place, it is not black and white but if you look close enough you will see shades of grey.
I have never
I have never written a poem that contains the word F**k
I have never enjoyed a film with the character Friar Tuck
I have never felt the fancy to wear womans underwear
I have never wanted to apply colour to my hair
I have never needed to say anything to the almight god
I have never enjoyed the fishy taste of cod
I have never really enjoyed reality television
I have never believed is pin point precision
I have never disliked a taste so sweet
I have never opened a copy of the magazine Heat
I have never wanted anything for myself
I have never enjoyed a film with the character Friar Tuck
I have never felt the fancy to wear womans underwear
I have never wanted to apply colour to my hair
I have never needed to say anything to the almight god
I have never enjoyed the fishy taste of cod
I have never really enjoyed reality television
I have never believed is pin point precision
I have never disliked a taste so sweet
I have never opened a copy of the magazine Heat
I have never wanted anything for myself
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