Saturday, January 2, 2016

That One Time I Tried To Save A Cat...

I used to have a cat.

She was a slight little thing, mottled white and grey, with an oddly colored pink nose and delicate pointed ears.

She was an 'indoor' cat, rarely let out because at the time we lived quite near a large road that I didn't credit her with enough sense to successfully cross.

Right off our dining room, there was a sliding glass door that led out into our back garden, and one day, about seven or eight years ago now, there appeared a chubby brown tomcat, with moth-eaten ears and a face like a stone.

He sat just outside my sliding glass door, making what were clearly indelicate proposals toward my feline, who, to my horror, appeared to be encouraging these advances.

I chased him off on more than one occasion, and, though he fled, there was a sort of bumbling dignity about the way he scampered toward the property line. And he always favoured me with a sour look that communicated quite clearly that I was beneath him.

The effect was that while he was obviously a disgusting creature of base moral standing, he was somewhat likeable in his own way.

His appearances became more and more frequent, until it was clear that he had no permanent home and had finally decided to establish his base camp in my back yard, just beneath a dogwood tree.

Every morning, I expected him to leave, but he carried on courting my brainless cat for at least 45 days until I realized that I had to put a stop to it.

Now, I had been very careful up to this point not to offer any food to the creature, knowing full well that it represents the thin end of the wedge, and that, for any animal, the first act of subjugating a human host is to entice it to feed you.

I resisted valiantly, expecting this chubby little ball of cheese to clear off as a result. However, other, more revolting needs kept him lurking perpetually close.

In the end, I resolved to offer him the food, but only by way of luring him into a trap. Setting out a cat carrier (a plastic box with a sort of barred door set into it on a hinge), I opened a can of tuna fish and placed it inside, nodding enticingly toward the cat as I did so, and assuring it, in a soothing tone, that I meant to trap it and convey it to the authorities, making it someone else's problem.

I then busied myself around the corner, feigning disinterest as to whether this creature ate the offered food or ignored it.

I have yet to meet a cat that does not register an immediate and irresistible interest in a freshly opened can of tuna fish. Nobody's fool, he of course lingered for a few minutes, eyeing me suspiciously.

However, in the end, he stealthily scampered over to the trough and began to fortify himself with evident relish. Such was his distraction that he did not notice that I had crept up behind him and closed the bars on the carrier until after he had finished his meal.

Upon discovering his predicament, however, I can tell you that he was not amused.

He began to make a hideous bawling noise that made my face pucker. But I remained firm in my plan, and moved on to the next stage.

You see, I am not entirely without a heart and I was reticent to simply take this misguided animal to the pound as I know that the poor unfortunates that end up there very frequently find themselves on the precipice of an awful doom.

I figured that this cat had to belong to someone. I would therefore do my utmost to establish a reunion betwixt master and wayward pet.

And so, I turned to that bastion of free advertising on the internet: Craigslist.

I took several pictures of this unhappy tabby, by then resigned to his place in the crate, and posted them online, with a bit of text that read something like:

Is this your cat? He has been living in my back yard for over a month now and I'm going to leave this ad online for five days before I take him to the pound, where his life will most certainly be forfeit. Heck, even if this ISN'T your cat, you're free to have him. I'd prefer not to deliver him into mortal peril, so as long as he goes to a decent home, I'm cool with that.”

At this point, I'm sure I leaned back from the keyboard, thoroughly satisfied by the good deed I had done and imagining the cat either cautiously exploring his new and decidedly suitable home, or being squeezed tightly by some tearful toddler while I received a joyous handshake and thankful smile from this youth's guardian, lost for words when contemplating my generosity of spirit.

I was somewhat disheartened, therefore, when a beep on my phone alerted me to an email in response to my ad.

It was from some other anonymous internet do-gooder, entirely ignoring the subtext of my internet ad – vis, that I wanted to ditch this cat entirely – and suggesting that I could keep him as a much loved pet.

I ignored the email, tutting to myself that some people could be such numbskulls, and went about my business.

I soon learned, however, that this lunatic was not alone in the world, as my phone beeped repeatedly at me over the next several hours, each time, it was some new loon making a similar suggestion.

I cast a jaundiced eye over each successive message, disdain slowly spreading across my face.

All these hippy dippy weirdos were happily suggesting that I keep the beast myself, many going so far as to delineate the negligible costs of having the animal inoculated at the vet and suggest that my life would be one of inexplicable joy from that day onward, should I only choose to make this creature my trusted friend and companion.

Days passed.

Many more emails came in.

Each followed this same theme.

My patience, sorely tested, eventually gave way and I saw that I would have to apply more pressure to these legions of cat-lovers who didn't want to own this particular edition.

Seeing little choice in the matter, I amended my ad. It now read:

Is this your cat? He has been living in my back yard for over a month now and I'm going to leave this ad online for five days before I take him to the pound, where his life will most certainly be forfeit. Heck, even if this ISN'T your cat, you're free to have him. I'd prefer not to deliver him into mortal peril, so as long as he goes to a decent home, I'm cool with that.

Some FUN facts about this cat:

  • He can hold his breath for nearly two and a half minutes.
  • He can survive falls of over 28 feet.
  • He is HIGHLY flammable.
  • He can go at least 8 days without food.
  • He can tell if you mix gasoline in with his water and won't drink it (anymore).
  • He is NOT a strong swimmer, but he made it nevertheless.
  • He is now, due to a string of misunderstandings, HIGHLY suspicious of human beings."

I want to emphasize that none of the above 'fun facts' were true. They made me laugh as I wrote them, but they weren't true. Or, they may have been at least, but I had taken no steps to test their veracity. I simply wanted the reader to exclude from their reasoning the possibility that this cat could conceivably enjoy a happy life in my company. Once life with me was excluded as an option, I figured I could look forward to a series of emails from people eager to offer safety and peace of mind to this animal.

I was dismayed to find that my ironclad logic again failed to yield the anticipated results.

Inexplicably, subsequent to this amendment in my advertisement, the tone of the emails I received changed. Instead of excited offers to welcome this furry little monster into a new and happy home as I had hoped, the emails were mostly threats, laced liberally with intensely graphic swears.

I mean it.

The sort of imaginative profanity that is reserved for the worst people on the planet.

Apparently, deep down, hippies are angry people.

I replied to each with a simple, “Do you want the cat or not?”

The responses I received were unprintable.

And so, eventually, the fifth day passed and my ad expired – along with my hopes of finding its owner.

Still, I could not bring myself to deliver the thing into the hands of the government. And so I put it in my car, drove it across the bridge, and set it free in a quiet neighbourhood near a very nice park near where my parents lived.

I don't know who eventually adopted him, but I saw him intermittently for years afterward when I'd drive out to visit family. I'm pretty sure I thought to myself that one day I'd write a blog post about him.

And now I have.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

And Suddenly, I'm Somewhen Else

Looking down at my tiny hands, the sun beating down on my back, the green grass a cool contrast on my bare feet to the hot blacktop a few feet away.  Fruit trees everywhere - I've been up in their boughs, my face smeared with peaches, plums, apricots and cherries, a halfhearted breeze briefly lifting my hair out of my eyes.

Friends everywhere.

The world is a different place when you're five.

I grew up in the desert at the base of the Rocky Mountain range, and I never remember those easy days so clearly as when I catch the familiar refrains of the songs that used to play as I drove with my mom in our station wagon down to the bank, where I'd be rewarded for my patience with a cherry red sucker or a snow cone.

Music transports you in the same way that smells do, catapulting you from the here and now to a different place entirely.

These are the songs that transform my reality, however briefly.

I know.  The Neil Diamond piece in the list above is an unusual choice - it isn't one of his better known songs.

But I remember seeing my little feet as I squatted against the wall next to a little record player that my dad had given me.  It was made of grey plastic with black rubber turntables and this little record would be on it, with its blue sleeve rested carefully next to me as I listened to this song over and over again.

It reached me.

The words made complete sense to how I felt.  My dad was my special friend and my parents had split up and I couldn't see him anymore and these words articulated perfectly how I felt, the words that I felt but that the grown ups refused to hear from me:

Come back again.
I want you to stay next time.
Cause sometimes the world ain't kind
When people get lost like you and me
I just made a friend.
A friend is someone you need.

But now that he had to go away,
I still feel the words that he might say:

Turn on your heartlight.

And I felt that my heartlight was that special place in my heart that nobody could find but me, where nobody could come to take my dad away.

And in the blistering rhetoric that accompanies divorces, it was this hidden inner mutiny that gave me strength and refined and shaped me.

I saw through the lies.

This was the reason I've never had a problem not following the crowd, the reason I've been willing to stand against the tide, to do what I felt was right, the reason I was successful.  And the seeds of this understanding were there in that song at that moment.

I have a special respect for those who have the ability to distil an experience into a piece of compelling poetry set to music, transcending spoken language and communicating in an unique way to all cultures across the world, despite gaps in age, gender, race, or whatever else we think divides us.

I wish I could do it.



Saturday, December 5, 2015

Even at Two Cents, You're Still Being Overcharged.

Have a look at this picture:

What do you think it is saying?

Do you find it ironic?  Why?

Have a watch of this little video clip:

What do you think it is saying?

Do you find it ironic?  Why?

Everyone has opinions.

Some are held quietly by those who are reticent to share them publicly.

Others are extremely vocal about theirs and frequently challenge contrasting views, robustly armed with statistics and figures which prove their perspective.

It sometimes seems as though the side that shouts the loudest wins the day.

Which is as good an approach to take as any, as most people's "well-studied" opinions are hilariously self-deceiving.

That's right.  We all just lie to ourselves all the time.

It's called a cognitive bias.  Essentially, it means that we are more likely to see what we look for, adding weight to facts and data that underline, rather than undermine, our previously held beliefs.

And there are some very clever things out there that demonstrate this fact.

Both of the above are great little pieces of media in which a viewer's cognitive biases can be drawn out.

Look at the picture above again.

The Native American tells the Pilgrim that they aren't allowing refugees.

On the one hand, it is ironic because the Pilgrims are migrants and now an awful lot of their descendants are opposed to allowing more immigration.  As none of these people would be here if not for immigration, it appears to highlight the absurdity of their position and uncover a selfishness and lack of awareness.

On the other hand, it is ironic because the Native Americans were systematically wiped out by the migrants.  Arguably, they would have been much better off had they uniformly adopted an anti migrant policy and that idea reinforces the argument which those in the anti-immigration lobby are making.

Let's turn our thoughts to the video.

On the one hand, it highlights that the willingness to accept evolution and scientific conclusions without first acquiring the level of education necessary to test them yourself requires the same sort of faith that religious people observe.  It is just a faith placed in men whose conclusions you are willing to believe based on precedents and their education.

On the other hand, it points to the fact that people mired in their beliefs seldom change them for facts and reason, not matter how the theories evolve or are refined and proven over time.  Regardless of conflicting data that you might be presented with, you can play the man and not the ball, and point out that due to the nature of scientific theory and evolving ideas, things which men once believed to be true was later proven to be false, and therefore a scientist is as fallible as a religious leader. Surely then, it would be folly to abandon your beliefs for science, with its patchy track record?

The nice thing about both the above examples is that depending on your cognitive biases, you'll have likely seen only one side of the argument in each instance.

If you saw both sides of the issue, congratulations on being so perceptive, but I still bet you agreed with one side of the argument more than the other.

What I like best about the above is that they do such a good job of portraying both sides of a complex issue in much the same way that a simple optical illusion allows you to see a duck or a rabbit at the same time, or a young or old lady at the same time.

It is only with thought and study that the other half of the image is revealed.

If you want your opinion to mean anything, you need to recognize and switch off your cognitive bias and approach issues with an interest in seeing an issue from all angles.

This, in turn, raises the point - How often do we really seek to learn and understand another's perspective?

Too often, the way we engage with others has the effect of shutting down real communication, effectively hampering the ability of both parties to reach harmony.

I'll probably look at that next time.



Saturday, September 5, 2015

Pretentious, Moi?

I personally LOVE pretentious people.


To answer that question, I must first explain WHY they are generally such detestable people.

An explanation that is, in fact, pretty straightforward: Pretentious people abuse society's unwritten policy of general politeness - they insult your intelligence, unswervingly degrade you, and escape from the situation without any comeuppance because people are constricted by the unspoken social contract whose one rule must never be broken – be nice!

A pretentious person is one who uses their words with efficacy and genius in the achievement of one, singularly depraved goal – to demonstrate their superiority over the party with whom they interact.

I say again – I love pretentious people.

Which brings us back to the previous question: WHY!?!?!?!

Yes, these people have a tendency to be unbearably annoying, but that's only because you haven't really interacted with them in the right way.

Think about it!

Their very posturing is often predicated upon farce, and this can be used to hilarious effect – should you be willing to surprise them by breaking the one rule society has as regards being unwaveringly polite.

For instance, I recently decided to visit a local restaurant – widely recognized as the undisputed territory of the pretentious – that had advertised that they had a new chef and new menu.

Despite these recent changes in staff and operations, apart from a few beleaguered patrons, the place was deserted – save for one flawlessly dressed hipster with tight trousers and a neatly trimmed chinstrap beard. His greasy hair was slicked back and tied into a tight, yet short ponytail, and his shirt appeared to be too small for his slight frame, the fabric straining at the ivory buttons.

As this man swaggered toward me, he managed to exude a palpable bravado which oozed a mixture of confidence and condescension. I was acutely aware that his eyes had turned me over with the efficacy of a looter at an electronics store, and he was confident that he had successfully taken the measure of me.

He eventually reached me and, standing next to the maƮtre d's podium amidst a vast sea of long abandoned and neglected tables, drawled out, in an insufferably arrogant tone devoid of any hint of self-consciousness or embarrassment, the following words:

“And have we booked a table this evening?”

His tone made it evident that should I fail to answer his query in the affirmative, I would indeed be taking a grave risk and might not be able to enjoy, with the other guests, their evident misery.

So there we were.

An unbelievably pretentious man, asking me an unbelievably pretentious question in an unbelievably pretentious tone, confident that no rebuke could possibly be forthcoming. He was safely shielded by society's unspoken, unwritten social contract.

His question was so patently ridiculous that this was clearly pretension as an art form.

I had little invested in this encounter – there was a perfectly wonderful place down the road whose food was unparalleled and whose door was always open to me – and so my response went something like this:

“Have I booked? No, I regret to say that I did not take that precaution. I have evidently been swindled by observation and logic, whose application on my part led to an assumption I made concerning all these empty tables. The fault is entirely mine. Nevertheless, I would be deeply indebted to you if you could find somewhere for me to enjoy a small repast – I know it is an inconvenience to squeeze me in, but it would be much appreciated. I shall greatly relish watching your fine establishment fill to the brim over the next hour or two as the vast horde of people who did have the foresight to make a reservation – making them undoubtedly cleverer than myself - begin to flood into the place. I only worry that when all is said and done, we'll have enough room for everyone. In fact, I feel guilty now – clearly my presence here would stretch capacity beyond breaking point and deprive those who did have enough sense to book their tables of the space that they will clearly require. On second thought, I'll save you the trouble and just go.”

One look at the man told me all. His bluster was gone, his social contract – unwritten, unspoken and therefore unenforceable – was not worth the paper it was written upon. He was frozen in a mixture of disbelief and dismay.

“Get the door for me, would you?” I asked, and, as the man scrambled to open the door for me, I made an exit that was decidedly more satisfying than any meal that would have crossed my table.

I had a similar experience at a restaurant – I told you, that's where all these people work – wherein I was delivered a pat of butter with a hair on it.

Unsatisfied by this unexpectedly spouting blob, I called our waiter over, pointing out the hair.

He examined the butter with an unimpressed eye, and then, rather unexpectedly, took its side and argued its cause with the dedication of a lawyer whose own brother was appealing his conviction on death row.

“It is,” he deigned to inform me in a drawling tone, “not a hair – it is a fibre.”

I glanced down at the tray of butter in his outstretched hand, and than back at his face. He was in earnest. He did not see that my objection was not related to the nature of the foreign object in my food, but rather its presence entirely.

Again, this was pretension practised solely for its own sake.

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Well, that's a different matter entirely.”

He nodded and began to lower the plate back down to the table.

“Asbestos, is it?” I asked airily.

He froze and looked perplexed.

“I don't understand,” he said.

“Yes, I can see that,” I replied. “What brand of fibre am I being treated to this evening? That's my question. You see, some are quite tasty – no examples readily spring to mind at the moment, though undoubtedly that's a failing on my part – but some are less desirable. You clearly serve only the freshest, locally sourced ingredients at this venerable establishment – could you go and inquire of the chef the provenance of this delightfully unexpected surprise in my butter? You see, now that I know it isn't a hair, I'm wondering if I'll be able to afford a luxury such as butter with fibres in. I'm on something of a fixed income at the moment, and I'm unaccustomed to this sort of extravagance. On second thought, gracious though it was of you to offer me such an unexpected treat, I might just prefer plain old, regular, pure butter instead. Please don't think me ungrateful – I'm just not used to eating things that aren't food. And look on the bright side: I know that sometimes when dishes get sent back, they let staff enjoy it so that it doesn't go to waste... I'm sure you'd enjoy eating this instead.”

And now you know why I love pretentious people.

They are society's comedy wing men.

Adept at keeping an intensely straight face whilst simultaneously creating bizarrely ridiculous circumstances that mock reality, they set you up for a personal situational sketch.

They are the playfully uncomprehending straight man who sets up the hero of the double act, and together, the pair of you can romp home to uproarious laughter.

And so, when you meet one of life's absurdly caricature buffoons, enjoy them. After all, that's what they are there for.



Thursday, August 6, 2015

QUICK!! Fix the Ugly!!

Well, I promised this post ages ago but got busy and finally found the time to come back to it.

Over the years, I've been an advocate for thinking for yourself and questioning why certain things happen - especially things that are newsworthy.  I'm a chess player and whenever my opponent makes a move of any kind, I always ask myself: "Why that piece and that square?"  It helps me to see what they are planning, and to defend against it.

It helps me to think more critically and to accept fewer things at their face value.  The ability to think analytically is a key to success and a necessary skill which I will advocate for again and again.

And so I watched with amusement in the months that preceded the general election here in the UK.

There was one news story that kept popping up more and more frequently and which refused to fade into the memory of the general populace - though it assuredly has now.

There was this T-shirt that said "This is what a feminist looks like."  It was a dull gray and looked as though it had been written on by sharpie.

Why was this so noteworthy?  Well, primarily because Ed Miliband had worn it, and so had Nick Clegg.  But David Cameron apparently refused to do so - reportedly 5 times.

Well, of course the media outlets ran the story.  And why not?  It was directly relevant to half the population in the UK and suggested that perhaps a bias against that half existed by the current Prime Minister.  You can read a bit more about what was being said here:

Momentum began to built and the story appeared again and again.

It wouldn't go away.

This was the sort of thing that couldn't be ignored and I mentioned this to my wife over the paper one day, suggesting that this could be a serious problem for the PM - one that would need to be addressed.
If Cameron capitulated and wore the shirt, he'd look weak.  If he refused, he'd look like he didn't support women's rights.

At the time, I mused that the only way out would be to find a way to turn the issue toxic -  then Cameron would look like a genius for not associating with it, while Miliband and Clegg would look like rubes simply seeking a photo opportunity.

How to turn this brand toxic was an interesting problem to consider and putting my strategic "chess thinking cap" on, I mused on ways that this could be done.

The best answer I could come up with would have been to suggest searching for a financing scandal within the charity linked to the T-shirts, perhaps one that made it look as though the money they raised didn't go to the intended recipients. It is an allegation that one frequently hears about charities in general and would have muddled the issue raised by the newspapers, undermining the credibility of the questions they posed.

I wasn't surprised, therefore, when the whole thing did indeed turn toxic - clearly the PM needed a respite - though I admire the sheer devious cunning of the solution.


The Mail on Sunday reported that these T-shirts were being made by people working in sweatshops for less than an pound an hour.  And subsequently sold with a price tag of £45.

The article is here:

The charity behind the T-shirts denied the allegations, but true or not, the damage was done.  The issue was decided in the eyes of the public and what was once a clear cut case of right and wrong swung heavily in one direction.

Consider it: A man refusing to wear a feminist T-shirt may or may not indicate a bias against women.  But women and children being paid terrible wages to produce the T-shirts?  If true, this could clearly be labelled reprehensible, and the attitude was "If it is in the papers, it is most likely true."

The mere allegation was enough to put the issue to bed.

So why the blog post?

Again, I'm just encouraging you to think for yourself and to try to ask yourself why things like this happen.

Why was Cameron's refusal to wear the shirt noteworthy?  Who wanted him to wear it?  Why did the other two party leaders wear them?  What would their motivations have been?  Why was it reported and who gained from those reports?


Why on earth would someone look at where these T-shirts came from?  What would their motivations have been?  What would have driven that curiosity?  And what would they have hoped to find?  What was their motivation in publishing their findings?  And what parties benefited from that report?

So often, people form their opinions based upon what they read RATHER than what they think.

You've got a brain!  Use it!  Question everything!

I find it interesting that you can see a report in a paper and completely forget - due to the medium in which you discovered the information - that there is a real person out there somewhere who wrote those words.  And real people have real opinions.  And they seep through into what they do and how they live.

I talk so often about thinking critically, but I don't think I've ever explicitly stated why I think it is so important.  Here is why:

If you can begin to see how the world works, you can successfully navigate your way through it and can position yourself to live the type of life that you want to.

I think that's worth the effort.



Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Automatic Writing - I Thought It Was Fake

I write.

I write a lot.

And I read a lot too.  So as a result, I am always interested when I see things that make me think.  Then I think about those things and what I think about them and gradually form an opinion.

Well, one of the things I read about and was kind of interested in was the idea of automatic writing.

Automatic writing is writing that is produced when the conscious mind is switched off and the mind is in a trance like state.

Hogwash, right?

Yeah.  Absolute nonsense.

Which is WHY I was so flabbergasted when it happened to me.  As I said, I write a lot.  Well, last night around one in the morning, I was feeling particularly creative - I like to write at night - and so instead of going to bed, I sat down with my laptop and started bashing the keys.

I am working on a fiction story and was enjoying playing God to my characters, moving things along with alacrity when I woke up, distinctly aware that my fingers were no longer moving.

It feels weird to be writing and then wake up.  Eerie.

Reading what I had written was even more disturbing, and just to prove how weird this phenomenon of automatic writing is, I've included the full text below.  I haven't changed any of the typographical errors that exist, so please forgive me for that.  I think in some cases it is clear what the intended meaning was, but I'll let you decipher this as you choose.  Either way, I am fascinated by what appears to be a transcript of every thought my mind seems to have begun, discarded, and interwoven.

And I now believe completely in automatic writing.

Here is the madness that I woke up to find before me:

"The electrical storm pushes a wall of cool and nervous air toward me, brushing my hair from my forehead as I contemplate where the last future went wrong. I think it was Sennrosen, and so he is a natural place to start.

You'd think the easiest thing to do would be to kill him, but surprisingly, the best way to do with things that even my moon puppy is to express yourself in the dynamics of the fantasy era and promise to walter that he will be forgotten. In fact, when you visit with your brain surgeon you should tell him that I am watching. That will freak him out.

So no, Sennrosen wouldn't die. Hitler hadn't had to die. In fact, there was a saved version of him in Utiopa and he was always very kind to me anytime I needed anything you would just hear him sigh and get the towel out for me, it must be sad to know your wife is the one evryone wants to visit on a saturday afternoon. But nobody touched the end of the bottle and certainly nobody ate a packet of worms because that'd be weird right? My question to you is even if you somehow know all of this stuff, who are you not amazed at yourself that you haven't got a key huh? I wonder if the door would be still open then when I am back from the rodent assembly. I dance angrily at you and watch you come at me bro. I don't have a hatchet but I am feeling a serious stain upon his character and aspersions being counted and aidan had five of them to hear him sing te pictures of my mother and under the sofa. I don'k know where the milky pickle has gone to but Jupiter is lovely tongith and I like how the world iarcial brocolli and bratvurst. I like how the sky is lovely in the night sky. I don't think I could ever have done this and I'nm so happy that she ifpeodo lists and forced him to join as well. I don't want it in my back yard and I don't know how to capture these dreams more clearly. I no qualms about breaking charager so I told that to alphie and then lose them because of wearing a hoody and I am impressed from where theffighting in the fields and hillocks and they can take the month because it makes no sense.

Even when I lie back on the biscuit and taste the relaxation of the nightmare problems that brownies have created while my head nods toward the core of the earth and I wonder if anone else likes the color pink more than yellow I know that I have been spotted by the giant with the big shoes and grewy shoelaces are better than orange ones but only just. String beans are also not as good as the color brown and I always like dbrown when I was little but nobody thiought it should be a favorite color of mine because it was too bland when the truth Is that you were too bland and Ionly got the ptet because it made my head light and fried is always better than homecooked because I ghousld have grtea nobble and when I tough the shingled nad tleka dwonder what the words will be if when I sleep and type then the numbers on the board are lined out for me and the lottoery will be won by a man who does thi sand you will see him cry as he rolls around in the grass but not next to the road because then he might die but I know he is pretend, so he can die, I guess. But if you have to have me do this all the time then it certainly couldn't be the same place again as it was before I got the watch fixed because she wanted me to go with her but I didn't because you are now in the full sunlight of the soul that I am now sharing with chuck from the television and he has legos and I like to play with im.. when I am dressed up and go out then asher comes to get nice doors. We should probably go with him because I don't trust some of the noised that I hear behind me and it sounds like th edog is really right here instead of wearing a red uniform nnd there is definitely a reason amber wants un to cll the lime squad because sll no I am not going to shoot these for sycrets and castles an dmemory thought he is keen to help where he can and this free wrigint is so creeby.

Well the integriation problem is solved but the themesong didnt work and s I now have an idea for what you say perfecly. But the guy on a motor bike bac cleal=rly if I t is your ai will ebe solooch house is instead of the pages of milk but he mate hang out with tall and mull of Kennedy's wasfprouduced a rajjundret than who routinely tke the diapers out south and I don't know if thw scooter once hd epushing the dvd tward that dan you take this book and type it out then the this is my sales piweatuwant to try some room on I oiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

Like I said - weird, right?

I wonder if everyone has thought spaghetti sloshing around in their brains or if it is just me.

I'm kind of interested in this and am tempted to see if I can make it happen again.

But maybe not.  I once worked (very briefly) in an asylum and this almost looks like the full flow of inexplicable consciousness you hear from those who can't raise the filter of the conscious mind.

I've never thought about this before - Maybe those poor unfortunates are forever dreaming, and that might not be so bad after all.



Saturday, July 4, 2015

True Adventures - North Atlantic Ocean

I'm fascinated by communication.  The written word in all its forms - articles, poems, novels - I've even found scraps of paper on the ground and opened them up.  Some were love notes, some bits of homework.  Each made me wonder about the person that wrote it:  Who were they?  What did they look like?  Why did they choose THAT word?  I wondered why it was crumpled up and thrown away.  Was it discarded because of sadness, frustration, or because they suddenly felt free of the thing and wanted to demonstrate that freedom through the act of crushing and leaving it?

I like things that make me wonder.

Music does that to me.

It is so often a cryptic, yet lilting riddle.  So much of the lyrics you hear in music are snippets.  Like overhearing bits of conversation blown to you in the wind.

And I sit and wonder what they meant by that.

I remember listening to the Ben Folds album 'Way to Normal', and thinking afterward:  "I wonder if Ben got divorced?"

Turns out, he had.

Most recently, I'm wondering about this guy and what drove him when he wrote this song:

Why the North Atlantic Ocean?  Who does he want back?  And does he really want them back, or does he feel left behind.  Would they have been happier back with him, or is that selfish of him and does he just have that sense you sometimes get when you know people have moved along and are pursuing their dreams?  And what happens tonight?  What is the truth he is talking about?  Is it some dark secret or is it something more simple - the truth about himself or the situation he's faced with?

There are so many stories you could conjure by just listening to stuff like this and allowing your mind to wander and wonder.

Either way, I love music as a form of communication.  It is compelling in a way that words alone seldom are.

Let me ask you - what songs sit atop YOUR list of favourites and why?  What is it in them that really speaks to you?  Why do they identify with you so strongly that they rate amongst your favourites?

Please take a moment and tell me - I really want to know.