scraps (2/Sept/18)

it’s one of those days when all the colours have been drained away leaving a coating of grey…

… there, the best line I wrote yesterday, all the rest uses the word grey a lot and not much else so I won’t bore you with the padding…

… a magpie of crackling outside the doors, yes, as I sit here writing these very words… what came first, the magpie or the words?… don’t answer, it’s rhetorical, and obvious… can’t work out what it wants, I don’t speak ‘pie

.. well, yesterday was a day for news… what a day for news… Costa Coffee has been sold to Coke-a-Cola, sadly another cafe struck from my go-to list… Neil Young has remarried (aka singer, musician, CSNY et al, part-time grump) to Daryl Hannah the actress as it happens, didn’t see that one coming but then again that’s Neil for you, unpredictable to say the least but undoubtedly living to the full… a painting of Nigel Farage, the right-wing political extremist, erstwhile leader of the far-right, anti-European, anti-anyone not deemed “English” party UKIP (aka United Kingdom Independence Party) and incidentally Trump apologist and sycophant was included in a charity art auction and succeeded in raising a grand total of… zilch, zero, nothing, sod all… not a single bid of interest not even in the name of charity did anyone want to sully their wallets nor suffer a charity to receive hand-outs from a representation from the proceeds of what is no better than criminal being one of the instigators in why we are where we are now with regard to Brexit, a UK in tatters where bitterness, bile, hate thy neighbour, racism and division rule this stained unpleasant land… so every cloud does have a silver lining after all……

… anyway, enough of that, three bits of news a day, has to be enough surely… actually I’ve read and listened to far more but we’d be here forever and I for one, and I’m sure more so yourself, wouldn’t want that and have better things to do like clip your toenails or watch paint dry…

… I’m coming to the end of the current novel I’m reading and have slowed down hoping to make it last, I don’t want it to end… a fool’s errand I know but still… I’m sure my next one will be just as good just I haven’t decided what it’ll be yet…

… I’ve probably wrote enough for today, a Sunday, a day of rest, apparently… I find Sunday’s a bit of a chameleon, hiding in plain sight…

© 2018 robert greig

wreckers and jackdaws (18/July/18)

he watches one of the world’s greatest natural wonders, clouds, in a very loose sense, of g and dealing the air and its unpredictable currents trying their best to be Starlings but they are Jackdaws and know it, and feel it as they are tossed and troughed in random ways that they try their best too look deliberate while trying to stick as close to each other which rarely but sometimes works… but still… most impressive he thinks, as he couldn’t do it anyway not being able to fly… an largely ignored natural wonder as Jackdaws, well, they are just crows aren’t they, common as muck, and nobody cares about them…… he watches and writes, and writes, and writes even more about them and their ways and their wiles but always with an inkling of guilt, that his efforts and focus should be on more pressing matters of the day such as the underlying screams of a world so intent on setting the controls for the heart of the sun with oblivious abandon… a world and its constituents parts laughingly called ‘countries’ sliced and diced by invisible lines, tears, lacerations, incisions increasingly ruled by narcissists, zealots, racists, megalomaniacs, sociopaths, psychopaths, headless chickens spewing delusional grandeur and Right-wing hypocrisy which may be in part why he always wished he was born left-handed when such an innocent innocuous word as ‘right’ get hijacked in such a way, bruised and abused and poisoned with rhetoric unintelligently designed to inspire intolerance, bitterness, violence and fear… they even have flags to wave, or to set alight, depending on which side of the splintered divide you tether your ghettoised hate… just like the wreckers who lure their prey onto the rocks while storm after storm batters sails and hulls, distracting attention, world leaders with lanterns stand on the cliffs waving pretensions of guidance, safe passage, undercover of night hiding malicious intent to scupper and loot and leave the rest for drowned, “collateral damage”, discarded as flotsam…… and all he can do is write about Jackdaws, sit under their wings bothered by wind and watch, and watch…. he feels the weight of yet another shovel of soil………

© 2018 robert greig

now we are six (8/August/18)

we accept so much ugliness in the world, these incompatible deformities and gracelessness, because they coexist with each other and worryingly, with ourselves… we all too easily and quickly become inured, immune, complacent and ultimately mutely and unconditionally accepting, a shock becomes a shrug, a shrug becomes a swipe of the finger onto the next 15 minute/ second buzz…
… there once was a Boris and that once is now who had literary pretensions far exceeding any presumed or genuine literary skills who, underneath a Halloween mask of clumsiness, was either genuinely stupid or genuinely disingenuous feigning ignorance between the act of stimulating a debate anxiety and actually being offensive, a red line in a six year old child one perhaps may forgive for not discerning difference but as a grown-up with all the grown-up responsibilities  and attributes that for better or worse go hand-in-hand one is merely left astounded at such levels of wilful disdain and ignorance… the Boris suffered mostly from not a single original thought, becoming a merry plagiarist of other lives, seeking the vicarious spotlight and attention of those even more deluded than him in which to disturbingly, toplessly bask oblivious that perhaps some men, as is imposed (rightly or wrongly) upon women, should not take their tops off in public… and did so, in copycat-killer of language style, sycophantically steal a method employed by another stain of evolution called a Trump both of whom care not a jot what slicks and debris are left in their wake and again like a six year old child pronounces as outrageous a diatribe of bile and deceit just to see how far he can push it and push it and push it while dancing and flailing with puppety arms and puppety hair…. isn’t it enough to be baffled as to how and why anyone, especially a leader of la-la land gets away with astounding levels of bile, hate and divisive intolerance without having our very own Trump-a-like pretender in a ‘Boris’ on this side of the sea-level rising pond lapping every cowpat he steps in with relish…… this is not to “stifle debate” or “avoid the hard questions”, such overused shorthand itself designed to shut down informed discussion, it’s merely wishing for intelligence over the dance-macabre twitteresque excreted by twits.

© 2018 robert greig