the gravy plane (25/May/18)

caught between the planes and the graves… jets screaming overhead, graves dreaming underfoot… here we go again, another day of war and death, cause and effect… consequences… some days are so busy there’s a roaring aerial bombardment of sound every 15, 10, five minutes, other days are as quiet as… a grave… we all know we all die, one day, inevitably, in the end, we know this in our heads but yet not one of us thinks it will happen to us… the world can’t really exist without us as what we perceive is the world so if we weren’t here then there’s nothing to perceive… of course we are all perceivers, great perceivers, some more perceivery than others and ever so many perceivereft, bereft of anything close to being perceptive and wade through their days in a meaningless haze… of course we know we aren’t immortal but still, it won’t happen to us, for me not me, for you not you, but for me you will and for you I will and regardless of this we both collude in  a grand illusion not saying a word to anyone lest we break the spell and vanish in a puff of sophistry…. this may all sound specious but that’s delusion for you and contradiction, every day is littered with them, one hand contradicting the other refusing to believe a word, or a finger, that is says, or pokes…… planes and graves, some days dominated equally by both although the graves are always there, next door, being graves, not expecting anything… one thing they do lack, luckily, are onlookers, people taking photographs, unlike the planes where people line the airfields boundaries, enthusiasts (or spies, who knows) watching planes take-off, then land, take-off, then land, over and over… unless there’s a burial there’s none of that activity in the graveyard, none of your bury, exhume, bury, exhume… one, it would be macabre, and two you would need a team of overtakers to undo what undertakers do… there be dragons in both situations, snakes actually, grass snakes in the graveyard, not crawling with them although snakes do crawl, or actually slither (which incidentally is one of my favourite words) and by the airfield because it’s built on sand dunes as was, adders…… as such should a plane-spotter be really unlucky they could wind up in the graveyard sooner than they’d wanted…… but will the world end if they do die?… of course not, because I’m still here and even though I know in my head I’ll die one day (I’m sitting at a wooden table writing this incidentally with bare skin in constant touch with the wood) in my grand illusion tell me quite categorically it won’t happen to me.

© 2018 robert greig

dis-mantel (18/May/18)

life, life, don’t talk to me about life… up and down and up and down and round and round, spin me around where I stop nobody knows… or cares… least of all me when the time…… on the mantelpiece, tick-tock… for example I can’t remember the last time I managed eight hours sleep… actually, I tell a lie, I can insofar as it was years ago, and when I say years I mean years, could be tens of years, pre-millennium for certain though the specific date and night, no…… on the mantelpiece, tick-tock… why does almost every mantelpiece I see invariably have a clock perched atop it, and if not actually on it then impaled to the wall above, that’s when of course there not a bloody great mirror looming threateningly which of course consigns the clock to the mantelpiece inevitably… usually placed centrally, the clock that is though usually the mirror too, though not exclusively, to the far left of right are also popular siting’s for it and commonly angled inwards…… often a type of carriage clock, or imitation thereof… on the mantelpiece, tick-tock… … all too often mantels which no longer straddle an actual working fireplace, instead just some faux moulded effect excuse for a fire, one not brought to life by matches but by an on-switch… or worse still a heater making no concession to even passing a resemblance to a fire… or even worse still merely a mantelpiece bridging a blank blocked-up hole, a once-upon-a-time hearth… some take it further and hollow out a nook, using the one-time appropriately-named fire bricks to become shelves for tea-lights… all very chic but hardly would enough to warm the cockles of your heart, leaving the mantelpiece to balance uncomfortably like an exhibit to some bygone times… on the mantelpiece, tick-tock… so your left with the time staring back in almost indecipherable Roman numerals alongside you own reflection mocking your stare from the chimney breast plagiarising your expression mockingly… on the mantelpiece, tick-tock…

© 2018 robert greig

collecting stamps (15/May/18)

maybe I should start collecting stamps…
or stamp-collecting…
are they the same, collecting stamps and stamp-collecting?
one is hyphenated so that may make a difference, perhaps giving it a leg-up providing a degree of self-importance to it in the same way hyphenated names can appear to do, although all-too often those with double-barrelled names are anything but…. hyphenation sounds to me like a complaint defined by breathing difficulties…
it’s called philately… but of course you know that already… the serious collecting of postage stamps, though to me also sounds like something potentially painful, possibly to do with hernias (I don’t know why I think hernias, but there you go… anyway…) rather than a sedate pastime…… I’d better be careful not to invoke the wrath of philatelists though who would be having kittens at hearing their serious study and investment in some cases of these lick-and-stick bits of currency, I suppose, being compared to a mere hobby…… it seems I’ve already started in a way having stumbled on and now the (proud) owner of a set of four 1989 first covers and a one from the one just gone millennium, I may have become a philaccidentalist….
I suspect if this become a ‘thing’ then no doubt it’ll be as random as everything else I do and may or may not last… I’ll try not to take it too seriously, that way lies madness, look what happened to me when I started trainspotting… oh, you don’t know about that?…. a blog for another time perhaps……

© 2018 robert greig