ouch barefeet, 27/May/17

10am and it’s already 27ºC in my driveway…… I climb into my car, or stationary mobile oven, turn on the AirCon (A/C) and sweat for the minutes it wastes to take effect……. heading to the south of the island it’s now 29ºC…. I wonder if the road will melt………. who knew the colour blue could be so hot………. finally having trundled along Anglesey’s highways (overly grand description) and byways I’m as far south as I can go looking across to the ‘mainland‘, although Anglesey itself is a ‘mainland‘ to it’s even smaller rock of Holy Island, and that is the ‘mainland‘ of the even tinier Skerries…. it’s all relative, as is this heat……. it was no 30ºC as I hastened from the A/C haven of the car into the cool refuge of the house that sits oblivious as to whether its hot or cold, it just is, a pile of bricks and tiles and glass and infill, known as furniture………. now back to 28ºC I set off again willing the A/C to feed me coolness now and drove back north…. welcome to my “back ‘n’ forth days” where whatever the weather I seem to spend most of my time back and forth from one here to another, to one there from another………. 30ºC once again…. holiday traffic has hit the islands highways and byways complete with their holiday-driving and caravans and cars packed to the gunnels with luggage and kids and pets and GPS to tell them they’re here when they’re not and lead them a merry dance…….. 33ºC….. middle of the day… this is insane….. A/C working overtime trying to stop me turning into a puddle on driver’s seat………… 2pm and finally, finally back home again, mid-afternoon, and 34 degrees centigrade on my patio………. ouch! barefeet! ouch! barefeet! ouch! ouch! ouch!………

© robert greig 2017

losing its identity, 26/May/17

it’s hard to remember how hot it can be when it’s cold…. and it’s hard to remember how cold it can be when it’s hot…. weather is a kind of magic… a mystery… frustrating and awesome….. we give it names, for the different things it does, the temperaments of temperature it manifests as defined by designated times of the year, all coordinated and strictly aligned in annual quarters arbitrarily called seasons…. we laden it with expectations and as such complain when it doesn’t follow the rules, do how we forecast or presume…… to it we attribute emotions, anthropomorphise its mood and mood-swings…….. always glaring up at the sky when needing to curse at it or maybe even thank it……….. it’s afforded a solidity, even a stability of state from which variations can then me measured and observed, poked and prodded…. our lab-rat……. provided a tangibility that simply isn’t there, hence why we name it…… know its name and own it…… it’s the ultimate fall-guy, to name and shame, the ultimate excuse for every wrong and ill, and even being late… or early……….. every day reinforcing and redefining our love-hate relationship with its moveable feast…….. fixing labels to which we expect it to fully abide, cooperate, and when it won’t it’s elevated to the status of ‘act of god’…….. it’s our porridge, either too hot or too cold… earth may sit in an astronomical ‘goldilocks zone’ but the weather never does…… too wet or too dry…….. we tell it’s fortune dressing guesstimates as fact when the only thing with weather there is with any surety is it’s changeable…. and frequently losing its identity……..

© robert greig 2017

mist’laid, 25/May/17

I see the sea mist once again roll in from the sea that can’t be seen, with the tide and up the shore to tumble over dunes like acrobatic ravens do, between the stands of marram, lyme and couch, coating rabbits fur weaving intricates of droplets into webs that hang between two thorns of gorse that oozes coconut from yellow flowers that feel faded by the mist, the sea mist, rolling in and off the sea…..

an artist in reverse unpainting everything, erasing brushstrokes in hope it might invoke a canvas blank once more to even up the score…..

inland it unfolds, unravel, unveils itself to veil all else from which some scraps of evening birdsong hang half-heartedly in vain as remnants of the day that is slowly unbecoming so leisurely the sea mist’s rolling in and off the sea…….

light reflects, rebounds, feeding ghosts that linger here and lurk amidst the murk among the lines becoming ill- to undefined, a blurring of the edges, these nameless shades are only caught in glimpses, blinks and second glances……..

swallowing all strain of sound, all nuanced noise, muting every echo should it dare to hang itself upon the air longer than it should, as more emotions lay mislaid are laid  upon its seamless skin returning everything to nought as dark descends upon a sea mist rolling in and off the sea…….

© robert greig 2017

 

wormpecker, 24/May/17

there was a woodpecker on the roundabout……. most unusual being as it was on the ground on the grassy central island encircled in tarmac and cars whizzing round as it seemed to be dragging a worm from the turf and no doubt winning out in the end…… but a woodpecker on the ground, how often have you ever seen that?……. the wriggling worm will be sadly no more, though the woodpecker may disagree…. it’s bird food now gone to worm heaven if there is such a place, or perhaps they’re reborn instead as hopefully I imagine something higher up the food chain…. maybe a woodpecker!………. in fact might that very bird that ate the early worm have been a worm in a previous life?…….. if it was and now it had lunched on the very thing it was before it was a peckery bird does that raise a dilemma?…….. in that when it dies will it now come back once again as a worm as some kind of twisted penance?……. except that of course it was merely doing what nature has coded it to do which is among other things like headbanging away on wood is to snack on worms when the opportunity arises……. so maybe that’s painlessly solved the said dilemma, though not so painless for the worm………… I wonder if the ill-fated worms last thought was one offering the small consolation of maybe coming back as a woodpecker thus meaning next time it won’t be eaten by one, and perhaps even find that very ‘pecker and kick its ass!

© robert greig 2017

sheet-faced, 23/May/17

how many sheets is too many sheets to the wind… three, six, eight, more?….. is it possible to be only one sheet to the wind?…… is there even an upper limit to how many sheets to the wind you ca be, where sheets simply max-out and you’re effectively sheet-faced?…….. and why ‘too‘ the wind?…….
why not ‘with‘ the wind?…..
… coffee, or more specifically caffeine, has this effect of making my mind move in mysterious ways… or that’s my excuse anyway……. in this case there’s only one letter difference between ‘mind‘ and ‘wind‘ and equally bizarrely they are the obverse and reverse of each other, like two sides of a coin, turn ‘m‘ upside down and it’s ‘w‘, and thus conversely ‘w‘ becomes ‘m‘……….. spooky!…. this may explain a lot, or a little, or not much at all when my mind ponders ‘sheets to the wind‘……..
and are they sheets of paper, or metal, or even bed sheets?… and if the latter are they linen or cotton… fitted or not?……. if the said sheets are paper then does it make a difference if they’re A3 or A4 or even A5… or larger…. or smaller……. Basildon Bond or recycled elephant poo?……….
…….. and being in the digital age could we consider a variation on the theme becoming ‘pixels to the wind’ which would carry the same burden again of how many pixels to the wind is too many, and being much, much, much tinier than sheets of paper, or bed sheets or metal then it’s likely to be an inordinate amount………
……….. it’s worth pondering the trivial just to escape the madness in the world……

© robert greig 2017

(ps…… for those unfamiliar the expression “(however many) sheets to the wind” relates to being drunk)

not somewhere else, 22/May/17

why am I here?
… our hero pondered the question for only as long as needed…..

I’m here because I’m not somewhere else……..
…. he felt this sufficient answer to placate the enquirer…. he certainly hoped so as he had nothing better………

what do I hope to get out of being here?
…… yet more questions, questions no doubt needing answers answers….. our hero felt put-upon…. cornered by such probing…….. an overwhelming urge to go all-out feral……..

expectations always lead to disappointment……..
…. he felt and certainly hoped this to be enough to satisfy the interrogator…. he certainly hoped so as he was running out of words……

what will I be taking away from this?
…. more curiousity unravelling before our hero’s very ears and eyes……..

me……..
…. our hero was at a loss as to how else to respond……. he never was very good with other humans anyway and indeed often regarded himself as other than….. not through ego just in a way other…….

……. feeling that this was enough questions for now our hero lapsed once more into his usual silence… of mute’lation…. having worn out any words he used he felt it was the least he could do…….

© robert greig 2017

aberthoughts, 21/May/17

back in the land of the familiar, more commonly called ‘home‘……. holidays are a double-edged sword, great to get away but coming back is an aftermath of exhaustion and feeling flat…..

______________________flat as an aspirin_____________________
____________________flat as roadkill_________________________
_________________flat as two dimensions____________________

…… so what do I bring back from my Aber’break…… the Aber’ where I’d been away for a week and not the one nearest to me which isn’t the same Aber’ but an Aber‘ nonetheless (re: ‘kick the bars’ 18th May for more blather on the name ‘Aber’)…….

……. memories of informal firepits in scraggly lines along the shingle beach…… of pixie-led streets going here, there and wherever-where…….. foodie heaven… coffee havens…….. waves like no other waves stranding glass and hags upon the strand……. a newly-met friend in the shape of a fellow shore-stomper……….. of public conveniences (strange as it sounds) which are free, clean and most importantly, OPEN!…… (Anglesey County Council take note compared with the shocking and disgraceful way you service what’s left of your neglected remnants)…….. relatively clean streets, apart from the morning of bin-collecting days when for a few hours it resembles something post-apocalyptic but it’s soon cleaned by a diligent army of refuse-collectors and street cleaners (well done Ceredigion….. once again Anglesey County Council take note…..)…… although yes, gulls and jackdaws will tear open plastic bin bags, so don’t use them and don’t blame the birds for human stupidity…………. as usual Aber’ like most seaside towns is home to the usual ration of deadweights and carbon-based wasters, luckily though not too prevalent……… there is a pier, hmm….. the motley assortment of thriving independent businesses, an international flavour, the accent!, the arts centre, folklife museum, art everywhere!, music, music, music, the awesomely impressive National Library of Wales …. books, books, books!………

…. for me I’ll sum it up in three words……….. waves, coffee, gulls!…….. ok four…. food!

© robert greig 2017