pixie-led in Holyhead (25/March/18)

there was, is, a frost, a goodly frost… a single vapour trail which means someone was going somewhere… there was a few clouds, not many to speak, keeping their head down mostly trying their best not to be noticed or awake from the pillowy billows…… honestly, it’s like being pixie-led in Holyhead… clocks forward, clocks back, not unexpected my disorientation decidedly disorienting again… I even slept oddly last night but really, why should it matter, an hour is here nor there and shouldn’t make a difference, or much… but still, discombobulation combobulates bobulatedly….

“and the clocks went forward”, read the line in a book I was reading, and they had, I’d just done it, bizarrely just before I slithered into bed and there I was minutes later reading, “and the clocks went forward”… how bizarre… this is what I mean, pixie-led in Holyhead indeed…… in the back of my mind I was hoping I’d remembered all the clocks, it’s at times (pun not/intended) like these you’re minded to remember just how many clocks and assorted timepieces you have… some do it automatically, most don’t, which is better really because at least I’m in control and not taking it for granted a clock is telling the truth… like I said, pixie-led in Holyhead… you see it makes sense to me because every time I go to Holyhead I get pixie-led, even though I know it well I still get turned around and once there I never seem to know which way is north, or south, or even west or east, though I am usually confident which way it up and down… mostly… thus, pixie-led…… and it’s an odd place is Holyhead, a port town with all the habits and weirdness that comes with port towns… a regular, or irregular, space oddity of a place… the end of the world after which you drop off (though actually there’s the sea and then Ireland so not quite the end but still has that feel), a last chance saloon, an indefinable sort of somewhere, the town that time forgot…… I think it’s where all these lost hours go to wait until they’re needed again for putting the clocks back later……

the gulls are restless… I’m not surprised… meanwhile some clocks have gone forward, some haven’t, and we’ll all spend the rest of the week neither here nor there in time, on time, extra time, old-time, closing time, timed-out.

© 2018 robert greig

listening to weather (23/March/18)

I’m listening to weather
and wondering
it takes a lot of concentration
requires focus… but… no too much…
too much and it’s easy to lose it
lose the tune, the melody, the weathers song
it’s true Prog… Primal Prog perhaps if you want a sub-category, or Prog Primal as compared to Prog Metal or Prog Rock or Prog Folk or even Psych Prog… ‘tis the original Prog of Ages… you can listen to it, hear it, imbibe it’s flavours, quench on its timbre….
it’s maximum minimalism… and yet…
just when you think you’ve found a pattern… gone… in the next breath… so I’m listening to weather, one of my favourite past-times and wondering…
wondering…
wondering, has the Internet (i.e. social media) made people stupid or have stupid people always been there and the Internet’s ((i.e. social media)  released them into the wild?…
please don’t address your answers to notme @ nowhereinparticular,
it’ll disrupt my weather-listening
… … …
I’m listening to weather, don’t you know…

© 2018 robert greig

measuring a thought (14/March/18)

the wind is like a scratch, an abrasion, a graze, gusts are contusions bruising the skin of the air that I breathe black and blue…. the wind scrapes and sores and scours… the wind weeps and cries and bellows, then yawns and dies and dies a last breath forgotten… the wind shakes, shudders, shivers, shambles and breaks, consumed by tantrums then resigned to exhaustion, sweet surrender… the wind grasps, grapples, scuffles wrestles only to conceded and recede… the wind is querulous…… the wind clings for dear life, a shape as undetermined as the sky… the wind is unrefined, cantankerously undefined, from one end to the other is like measuring a thought… the wind is a vandal, a hooligan, a thug… the wind is an artist, a sculptor, a dancer, sprayer of Aeolian graffiti, composer of the tonal and atonal…… the wind is a linguist, an acrobat, a juggler… the wind is a fugitive, an anarchist, a misanthrope… the wind is mischievous, flippant, diffident… the wind if serious, intentional and often inconsolable and never confessional… the wind is push and pull, give and take, heave and ho, warp and weft, wilful, disobedient, irascible……there’s wind that sometimes comes with rain, sometimes on its own, whipping waves, stripping soil, sweeping sand in scatterings of dust as it throws itself away… the wind is suicidal… the wind is well-groomed, unkempt, orderly,  ill-mannered, organised disorganised, well-versed and unrehearsed… the wind is inviting and ominous, coiled as a snake unravelling, in a spiral in a gyre down the chimney fans the fire, sleep and wakes, sleeps and wakes and while it sleeps it waits… the wind is hesitation and impatience…

© 2016 robert greig