The internet isn’t sexy, and it isn’t helping

Posted: April 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was distracted after writing the above title, by brief segment from a chat-show featuring a guest speaking about why having core stability is important for Formula One racing.

Apparently, it’s very important. For Formula One racing.

I don’t like Formula One racing, though I admit I’ve a soft spot for core stability.

The time I spent on the…….sorry I became distracted again and started browsing for cigars online.

The internet – it is distracting, and not in a good way.

The internet is only as wonderful as it is – and that’s about it.

When I think of the internet being most useful and worth keeping, I picture vital research being finalised in a lab in Australia thanks to some AI programming, then being discussed on a video-conference-call with Europe-based colleagues, and then shared with a children’s hospital when it saves a baby’s life in the nick of time. And then the news is celebrated amongst Facebook friends.

Yes, there’s also music, online communities, access of life-saving information, and occasionally – OCCASIONALLY – a funny video of a cat having a slightly bad time; all of which is tremendous.

Otherwise, it is a unsexy place – location undetermined but seemingly everywhere – and stopping people from approaching one another normally. Of course, ‘normally’ for humans – online or ‘off’ (I like that term – I am “off“) will remain as strange as it ever was before, thanks to people having it within their DNA to make things interesting.

These engagements don’t need to be online. It is preferable to take a single step out doors and try it thus instead. It’s better for your cardio.

The internet is not good for your cardio.

Cardio is sexy, leads to sex, and actually is sex too.

Whilst the internet might lead to sex – it certainly doesn’t do so in a sexy fashion; a click of a button is neither romantic, or attractive. ‘Sexy’ is almost as important as sex itself.

‘Sexy’ is a reason I am involved in things and with people, but aside from my wife – they’ve nothing to do with sex, but they sure as hell are sexy.

Indeed, I have many sexy friends that I don’t find remotely attractive, which I tell to the remaining few of them all the time.

In fact, the benefits of the internet, as broad, varied and accurate as they may be, seem to be proven in the individual instead of en masse.

The individual – who used internet forums to lose weight. Most are gaining weight from lack of movement.

The individual – who developed their friendship circle of like-minded folk to enjoy happily. Must feel more alone than ever, especially when self-judging in comparison to the beautiful people online.

Beauty is important a point that the internet has hammered-home and lost altogether. Once, physical beauty of a person was an exception. Of course everyone is beautiful but no they’re not. Quite a few are pretty, or kind of handsome, but few are beautiful.

The internet has reduced the unique advantage of beauty as something special. Beautiful is now ‘just-another-beautiful‘.

Naturally, everyone wants to breed with someone that is actually attractive – and all the more so if beautiful. I do, anyway. But now that physical beauty is everywhere, thanks to an online ubiquity, it’s not quite the same selling point as it once was.

Therefore, I predict now that in soon-years, physical beauty as a focal point will be replaced in favour of a unique face, one that suggests character over symmetry; balls over cheekbones. Smells good.

The internet has no scent.

It is whiffless, and this should tell us all we need to know.

But there’s more.

Dogs do not approach the internet, despite being such as prominent feature on social media and veterinary sites. If a dog doesn’t trust it,

If the internet were to attend parties, it would be the rather uncouth character fraudulently telling everyone about ladies he’s been with, attempting to sell you a variety of essentially unnecessary items but primarily penis enlargement pills, and speaking in acronyms and then delightedly rolling his eyes when older folk don’t understand.

The internet ain’t got no class.

Oscar Wilde would not invite the internet to one of his soirées, nor would he have need to use the internet as I just did to spellcheck “soirée”.

Another subject I needed to check with online help was the names and faces of the original 150 Pokemon.

I’ve wondered for a while if my two young children (3 and 5) would have their attention held by the programmes I watched when I was their age. So I gave the original pokemon series a go on YouTube.

Sure enough they loved it, but whilst they enjoyed the stories – laughing and silent at all the right moments – I was squirming with resistance to the urge to search online for the full 150 names and faces of each Pokemon.

I succumbed.

This is the data I do not need, but in that scenario I felt I could not do without it and now, in my brain, its there.

150.

So many minutes.

Afterwards, and indeed at the time, I preferred to spend the time with my children, watching them enjoy the cartoon, or I could have turned to this blog and make it a little better, or even dropped and given a solid round of push-ups. But instead, I had to have the instant knowledge, and it is distinctly unsexy.

Yes, of course the internet is fantastic when it’s needed, but we don’t need it as much as we use it.

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy thirst for knowledge, but there’s nothing wrong with not knowing something every now and then, let alone immediately.

And yes, this blog is on the internet, but nobody is trying to suggest this blog is a good thing. I could take it offline, and just comment your address below so I can post each blog to you in the mail.

The internet isn’t sexy. I don’t like online banking, which is remarkably more convenient and cost-effective, because I prefer bank tellers. I dislike home online-streaming services, but really want to go to the cinema and smell the popcorn. I prefer not to order online goods, as I really enjoy getting lost and confused in a department store, hoping my wife will come and find me.

It makes the world something you view, rather than be party to the people in it, and with head full of the kind of inane you don’t want. And I know what kind of inane I like – it smells like popcorn and is trusted by dogs.

If you haven’t got people – you haven’t got much.

And I’ve got some.

Sam

If not seizing the moment – at least go for a walk (Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey).

Posted: March 17, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

First of all, walking and talking was my idea first.

Before The West Wing, before Adam Buxton’s podcast, before that other guy near LA who hikes into the hills with celebrities, there was me. Walking. And talking. Entirely to myself.

But this show – Perfect Pub Walks with Bill Bailey – does it very well indeed. Mental health, accessing nature, exercise, fresh air, sunlight, and perhaps being slightly ‘on camera‘ – this is how interviewing should be.

A discussion. With motion.

But I am worried about Paul Merton’s knees. I don’t often, because I don’t every really see them, since he’s been most regularly sat behind a panelist desk on HIGNFY for the past 3 decades. I saw them even less when he appeared on Just a Minute.

And I’m coming to realise, the comedy old guard that I grew up with; Merton, Bailey, and most importantly – etcetera – who I like to imagine is still youthing it about the place, is actually getting older to the point of being…old.

And nobody seems to be guarding any of them, least of all Merton’s clifftop knees.

I’m sure this has happened before, but my only frame of reference for this was when Matthew Corbet stepped back from the Sooty programmes. I was a child when that happened, and as an adult I saw Matthew return for a spot in a much later series and found he’d not only grown old, but I’d become an older person too – albiet one that still watched the Sooty Show.

Inclined to remedy this feeling, I did as I often do and gave my father a ring to get it off my chest.

Bad idea – as this only uncovered that he’s now in his 70s and at the stage in life, even in 2024, at which old people die purely on the grounds of being old. He’s not dying, but everyone would basically not complain too much if he suddenly did because it’s what’s supposed to happen.

This upsets me.

And this’ll be the same for many people. I’m in my mid-thirties, and as far as I’m concerned I’m going to live as long as I please – which is very much down to how good the customer service of life goes on to be.

If I’m not satisfied with your tone, I’m going to take my business elsewhere, thank you very much. This mortal coil never suited me anyway.

But I don’t expect to age myself, nor my heroes to age ahead of me, be that the comedy greats, or be that my dad.

That phone call, and this programme (about walking and talking, which – remember – was my idea originally) gave me a moment of realisation – I need to go for a walk.

With family. My wife. Dad.

My friends too – though they are fat, lazy, awful and won’t talk to me for some reason – and it’s mutual.

It was a good moment to have and I know I need to seize it.

Basically, these moments accumulate to suddenly becoming yesterday, and a fair few number of them amounted to ‘years ago‘ and the debt we owe for letting them slip-by can’t really be repaid.

So, I’m going to go for a walk with my father, and I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it. My Dad’s not a famous fellow, but he’s my fellow and I know he loves me very much. It’s nice to know that.

We can talk about the years of evenings we sat next to each other watching The West Wing, or laugh about the surreal satire Merton may have delivered on a most recent HIGNFY. Plus the latest developments on the Sooty Show.

I’ll give him the low-down as to my creation of walking and talking – which I really did invent.

I even created a phrase for it: “the walk and talk” but I forget why I called it that now.

Sam


I can’t be alone in thinking this. I’d like to be though.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

There’s always a risk of being honest online.

One must tread (type) carefully with the expectation that one is racist or something equally unpleasant and therefore not deserving of having a blog anymore.

Now, I probably am racist, but I’ll leave that to folk more qualified than myself to diagnose. I can’t think of any specific views or prejudices at this time, but I’m sure they’ll surface on my commute home through traffic.

Less so focused on the likely-racism for today though; I want to talk about feeling sad.

Because I do feel sad.

I’m sad right now.

Oh look, I just got sadder.

And this has happened before with me, and it’ll likely crop up again, but I do keep reverting to this perpetual option I have to wander into a field and die.

Not suicide – I don’t have a violent bone in my body – but definitely not trying any more.

I don’t know if that counts as ‘giving up’, or ‘no longer putting up with the planet’s negative sides any more’ (can a planet, being round, have a side? When I’m in a bad mood – yes it can. A temper-dependent, partially flat Earth).

Either way, I like the idea of having the option to wander into a field, sitting down, and worries ebbing away as one of two things happen.

  1. I master meditation and Zen the shit out of myself.
  2. I abandon the premise of hunger, ambition, regret, loss, hope, fear, glory, pride, and especially having a numb bum from sitting in a field for too long.

Hunter S Thompson made clear is his view on suicide, ultimately by shooting himself in the head (really showing his conviction) and in what he left behind – his words.

Beautiful words on the matter.

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time.”

And then the note – ‘Football season is over’.

It was his final note. We probably shouldn’t know about it – I doubt it was ever meant for us.

But still, his point remains now as true as then.

It’s a weariness. I cannot be bothered with the blue bells and bird song.

I’ve had enough of the laughter of children and the company of friends.

Women aren’t what they used to be, nor am I.

Bye….along those lines.

The sort of things that are why you want to leave a dinner party that’s gone on too long, but you don’t mention because everyone thinks you’re suicidal, and that reflects awfully on their hosting skills.

I’ll cheer-up, I’m sure. Maybe not tomorrow, but hopefully before the weekend.

And whilst in this mood, I still like to ponder walking into a field, harmlessly, carelessly, and should I die then I shouldn’t care, because of the careless happiness I’d feel about being in a field.

On a sunny day, obviously.

Not too sunny, either – that won’t work for me.

For this I’d have that kind of particular preference that comes from a mix of memory and imagination and won’t ever actually happen – that’s my kind of weather.

It’s good for the soul.

Sam

Why I don’t remember my weekends.

Posted: January 26, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I tend not to remember my weekends, because I tend not to remember most things that aren’t memorable.

I cooked pig’s feet on Sunday night, and I have literally no clue what we took place.

No clue.

I’m thoroughly informed on the flavour of trotters (taste like pig feet, probably like your feet too), but not on the preceeding 48 hours.

It’s because I ‘Walter Mitty’ – but not in the exotic or adventurous sense like the famous movie.

Instead, when my weekend is happening, and especially when my wife is explaining to me what we’re doing for the weekend, I like to get lost in an internal fiction of mundane oddness.

And it’s very frustrating.

I’d love to enjoy the memories of a weekend, or maybe even the weekend itself, but I reverie without mercy to the point that I’ve broadly got no idea what’s going on.

My wife was speaking, as I presume she does regularly, and instantaneously I began daydreaming about how I would explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, using only the most choice grunts and hand-gestures.

Why did I do that?

I didn’t do that!

That daydream happened to me and I simply couldn’t look away.

If this bizarre scenario played itself in your head – you’d also miss-out on your wife’s plans for your weekend.

And to be frank, whilst I’d like to enjoy the weekend, sometimes – I also really want to give some serious consideration to how I’d explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, and then watching myself in my own head, with an ancient Viking I’ve never even met before, miming a vagina whilst really committing to an effeminate moo.

Sometimes, I’d really like to do that.

But, reality is also lovely at times.

My wife and kids a smashing, really lovely. Can’t fault them at all.

My wife walks towards me with a smile that she can’t help – because she, like me, has a massive face.

Thus, she presents me with a smile, the same way someone might want to show me they’ve a bucket.

And my children – they’re worth being around for, as well as all that parental responsibility, etc.

My son reminds me of me, he’s the best show off and hopefully will do better than having a blog one day.

My daughter makes me laugh, and I expect that’s a phase till she finds easier means of getting chocolates and dollies.

How do they compare with an ancient Viking ignorant of bovine gender?

They’re preferable, but I’m still distracted by the ridiculous.

I’ll just have to concentrate on the preferable, I suppose.

But I hope you appreciate that having an uninvited Nordic fellow, complete with axe and beard and numerous other stereotypic apparel, inserted into your head from nowhere, might be distracting.

Because it is – I’ve written a whole blog about it. That’s how distracting it is – it gives me focus.

If this distracting focus makes me a millionaire thanks to this blog, that’s a negative – I don’t want my son to be inspired by such things.

He’s already distracted enough, with the void look in his eyes that tells me that in his head he’s somewhere nicer than the conversation I’m currently giving him.

He needs a good, solid focus, uninfluenced by fictional Vikings and me.

He needs his grinning mother – the ultimate reality, the sort you can both hang your hat on and rely.

My daughter will be fine, she takes after the ultimate reality with the big face.

I’m reminded of something teachers have said for, I expect, centuries…”must try harder”.

I’ll certainly try.

Sam

My Nan is in hospital.

Posted: December 16, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

My Nan is in hospital, and is due to remain for a few more days, following a week of already having been stuck there.

She is 96, she has dementia, bronchitis, a UTI, and I’d imagine depression too considering all those combined after a week in hospital.

This year has been her greatest deterioration. This was the year she didn’t recognise me right away. And was the year she asked me if I’d seen her mother around. I hadn’t – she died before my mother was born.

She wants her mother, which is quite the thing to want at 96 years old.

I think, not just from the emotional low of wanting ‘mum’ to make everything better, but there’s also a simple, sensible logic to it.

“I’m confused and don’t know where I am – I’d better find where mother is. That’ll solve everything, as usual.” That’s a problem solving habit we grow out of, but I suppose we also cling to.

I’ve a feeling this is commonly noted by those visiting old and poorly relatives in hospital; they look so small.

She is curled up in her bed, blankets over and around her, with side-shelves full of debris from visitors and staff. Uneaten meals under heat-covers, unopened magazines of gossip and brain-teasers, sweets and fruit drinks.

I added to that some photos of my son, from his school’s photo shoot.

He looks ridiculous, but I suppose that’s in his DNA.

It made her smile and laugh, and I could see it also made her think and try to remember. She recognised him, but I think she may also have liked just seeing a cheerful little boy smiling under a mop of previously combed hair.

She was concerned about where her shoes were, so I kept pointing to them and throwing them in the air every now and then to liven up the place. She liked that too, but also asked that I put them back carefully, where she could see them.

“When I die, all my children are going to get a little bit of money.” she keeps saying, again and again, loudly. I kept having to match her volume by saying “not yet Nan, you just stay with us instead of going”, so others didn’t think I was trying to coax it out of her with a power of attorney one hand and a pen in the other.

I brought her some strawberry bon-bons, and she had one. I think it was the thrill of the day.

My mother is worried about there not being a proper care plan for her. Nan asked me, “who am I going to live with” and at first I didn’t know how to answer because I don’t know her care plan, and then I realised she’d actually forgotten that she currently lives alone, next door to my parents. She didn’t know where she lived, and was asking me.

It’s no less sad to tell you this because of who my Nan was, as that shouldn’t matter.

But I’ll tell about that sometime soon.

She should be home soon, before Christmas.

It’s seems pointless to tell you I love my Nan very much, that would be assumed by most and is true. But she loved me beyond care of danger and damage. She’d take on a bull at full charge for me.

Just a grandmother loving their grandchild I suppose.

But it’s important to remember, I feel anyway, that this is how things are, were, and will be. It’s important to remember because it’s important.

Nan was completely on my side. And now I sit at hers.

I’ll tell you about her sometime. Her name is Betty, something she was first called when she was a little girl, held by her mother and father.

Now she’s 96. But she’s still Betty.

Sam

“Let’s get current” (an idea I once had)

Posted: November 16, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I had an idea once to make this blog a big success – of the acknowledgeable sort – where people would stop and say “Hey – look at that big successful blog…”

Part of the plan was to ‘get current’, which I didn’t.

However, building on that from back then, I’d like to bring things to the here and now, keeping the finger to the pulse and the front page journos paying attention to me for the next scoop.

And, to be inclusive of events I’ve missed since I had then, I’ll be beginning with the current events at the time I had the idea: in February 2022.

So, apparently there’s a massing of Russian troops at the Ukraine border.

I hope everything turns out alright.

Imagine if Russia invaded Ukraine – that’d make a lot of noise.

This isn’t working.

Maybe being current isn’t where it’s at any more.

Perhaps I should turn to historical events, and cover with insights into yesteryear that entice the reader into re-reading and re-reading till at the ultimate heights – generating advertising revenue.

I just need an historical event to with which to begin.

How about this – way back in February 2022? I had an idea to ‘get current’ and make my blog the next fresh thing about to hit the big time, at which people would say “Hey, look at that blog, in a minute”.

This idea coincided with outbreak of war between invading Russia and Ukraine, so I quickly for became distracted.

This isn’t working, again.

Reconsidering this plan, it could be that the war in Europe outweighs a nice little idea for my blog, in terms of being regarded a ‘historical event’.

Still, having a blog not only gives you the chance to stand out unique from the crowd and draw attention to yourself and be admired.

It also gives you the chance to say what millions of others say and think daily, which is due no greater regard than being praised for noticing your legs are in the same room as you.

In that theme, to echo something worth echoing, Fuck Vladmir (I hate him on a first-name basis).

Vladmir has no class.

Vladmir is incompetent at many things.

Vladmir’s handshake is so gross, it feels like someone is wanking your hand and looking you in the eye with a Russian accent.

Vladmir has a smelly face and a fat personality.

Vladmir ain’t welcome round these parts.

Vladmir looks like he should be sitting sadly at a bus stop in the rain, holding a carrier bag with nothing in it.

Vladmir, Vladmir, Vladmir….

Go fuck yourself, Vladmir.

Apologies, this may have descended into cyberbullying the Russian President (“Vladmir…..something”), but judging by what I’ve read happens to his enemies, I’m sure I’ll get my comeuppance – so everything should work out well for everyone.

In which case, to echo again: go fuck yourself Vladmir. You ruined February 2022, you ruined my blog, you wrecked and ended lives forever, and worsened a troubled world in need of what Russia can really do.

Go fuck yourself Vladmir. I checked in with School No. 193 at Baskov Lane, which you attended, and they all thought you were a wanker. They could tell by the handshake.

Sam

Mindful destruction and me (I’m a baseball bat kind of guy)

Posted: October 1, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m not an artist.

And I’m certainly not a creator (my kids and debris aside).

I’m a smasher, a breaker of things, a “that’s not supposed to be in there, Sam” kind of guy.

No, actually I’m a baseball bat kind of guy.

Baseball bats are the place to be, a way to dance and the means of rhythm that coincides with deep and hearty impact in the soul.

Here’s one of my former favourites (once named ‘Old Slugger’), which caught fire one enchanted evening:

It’s natural to enjoy a stick, a good stick, a stick that makes your walk home from work a good one.

And aiming approximately at the planet, swinging wildly (the only way to do it) and bracing yourself for your own impact, this is about enjoying a collision that reminds you of who you are.

I prefer apples.

Preferably slightly rotten (for the spread) but I’m prepared to again spend to have the freshest ingredients.

Baseball bats and apples.

Also bananas, pineapples and occasionally a roast chicken.

This is the relationship I have with fresh fruit and poultry.

Impacts so deep I feel like I’m part of their diet. An unnecessary 5-a-day.

I can’t fix this smashed plant pot in the shape of a classic VW campervan. I can’t superglue it in the right places, and I can’t marry up the many pieces to be flush.

I can smash it again though, and we can all enjoy the pieces (or I buy a new one, most likely).

I moved onto a chair today, two big wicker inherited buggers that took up more room than the total mass of my family combined.

With hammer and axe, as well as sinew and love, I tore them to pieces, and have just finished. There’s sweat, foul language and bits of wicker everywhere. My children were told to stay out of daddy’s deconstruction area.

I now have pieces of the wicker chair up on my wall. Does that count as what you’d want to consider creation?

I didn’t build the wall, but I did nail something I broke to it.

Really, I need to learn how to use superglue.

But I can’t deny in me the ‘back home’ sensation of laying a baseball bat into something. It’s the future, and I’d like to think I’m a part of that.

It’s not helpful, but it does, I believe, make us feel better.

So let’s strive for this measured mindful destruction in the long-term, and meanwhile, let’s pay attention to those who now how to superglue, build walls and fashion wicker chairs.

I suppose, someone needs to make the baseball bats, but till then there’s always sticks on the way home from your walk.

Thanks for reading.

Yours, swinging wildly at the planet,

Sam

My son is my lightbulb

Posted: November 4, 2019 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My son is my lightbulb.

It’s not his fault, but he exceeds in illumination and has effect on my life in which I feel as though I’ve had a bright idea whenever I’m in his presence.

He’s like being on a diet.

When dieting, I’m perpetually stuck with the ingenious prospect of keeping at it, head down and mouth hollow and shut, or to indulge in that enlightening option of gorging until I realise the need to diet again (which is a brilliant solution as dieting is should really be encouraged).

When I hold my son, or when I come through the front door, poke my head around the corner to see if he’s there, to be met with the inquisitive tilt of the head and resulting smile of a little fellow who loves me, I have the idea of making everything perfect, just for him.

It’s a good idea, no?

I thought so anyway, and so I surveyed the globe for things that need tidying.
It seems, I’ve quite a task ahead of me.

It occurred to me that religious people have been looking to correct the wrongs of the world since the dawn of things like dawns being given names, but to no long-term success. Considering they had God on their side (according to press releases), and bearing in mind that I’ve distinctly less divine powers than the average kids party magician, I feel any ability to introduce a white rabbit from a hat is unlikely to see things peacefully concluded in Syria.

Certainly, I could overload each opposing force with white rabbits until all combatants were incapacitated with the drowsiness brought on from gluttony of a certain delicious stew, and all armies were made unidentifiable from one another owing to the shockingly speedy new trend of all clothing being made from cosy white fur, but despite my being a carnivore, I wouldn’t want to send a billion bunnies to their war-ending ruin.
Just imagine the emails I’d get.

Rather more, if I were to engage the electives from either side in a simple magic show, I think I’d be amongst those shot, my wand being nothing more than not really a wand.

There would be those who would argue that despite all my previous promises of world-revolutionising changes to the planet in the name of my son, this is all clearly bollocks as I wouldn’t send a billion rabbits to die in the Middle East.

To which I’d say: “fair enough, I guess I’ll have to then”, and would proceed to load myself comfortably into the back of the latest air-strike capable bomber and then go about vomiting white rabbits from out of my hat at the speed of magic.

Why doesn’t God do this, I don’t know, and neither do you.

Either way, I’ve still an urge to improve the world in every manner I can.

I feel that will include fighting for changes and fighting for traditions, which are all going to be according to what I deem best for my boy anyway.

I’d produce one rabbit perhaps, from a pet shop rather than from one of my hats (which I’m actually going to wear later and don’t want smelling of a rabbit with stage fright), and give this to him so he can hold it and smell it and feel little life in his little hands.
I think that would help him in some way.

We’ll stay clear of Syria until it gets too close, at which point we’ll go away from it, because I don’t ever want him to go through what children and the children-grown are suffering over there.

I’m not divine, and can’t change too much around Earth. I’ll love my son until I’m gone, hoping only that he’ll have known how much I loved him, tried to keep him happy and safe, and to remember that when the times like those in Syria come to him, he remember the preciousness and wonder of life before he takes his next step.

He is my lightbulb. On.

Sam

28 Going On ‘Missing, Presumed…’

Posted: January 9, 2018 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

I just spent 4 hours being unmanly.

Manliness is easier when sitting down, but therein lies the flaw of the matter – video games, despite all their sword-flailing/bullet-busting/gore-for-all enthusiasm, are not a manly way to spend ones time.

Stewing up a stench, gaining body fat in every region aside from the virulent thumbs, and alienating myself from my own inner dialogue, is not an effective use of my Monday; nor is it a good reason for all those cavemen predecessors to have procreated and died in a long line of folk known for their good thumb-work all adding up to me; eating more calories than I could possibly spend because I feel like it, with booze before noon, and a disdain for the unfashionable sunlight because it creates glare from my television screen.

Video games are a waste of evolution.

I can think of other species that would have died to have had those thumbs (in many cases – they did die – Dodos with thumbs would’ve vanquished those pirates); and here I am – wasting them like any other comparable metaphor that I can’t think of.

4 hours devoted to pixels is probably a major factor as to why I can’t do the proper word thinking no more.

Nobody looks back from their death-bed and wishes they’d spent more time wasting their life.

Oscar Wilde committed his last words as an epigram, proper sturdy wit that has lasted the ages as a bit of throw-away excuse-me-for-being-so-hopelessly-charming-and-acutely-smashing via the line: “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” And he did.

Upon my own deathbed, surrounded by the failures of my life – obvious my omission – I shall advice this of the young: “Get ahead in Candy Crush early; it’ll save a lot of living”.
I don’t know why I don’t do things.

It could be the fear of failure. It could be the fear of success.

When I look back on the manner of living by which I have conducted myself, I could cry.

I’ve had a high-flying job, travelled the world, wooed fierce women and defeated great men, I’ve a formidable gang of friends and family that is quite simply better than yours, with a woman by my side whose perfection and reciprocated love for me is unutterable by any common tongue as it seems only constant and fiery devotion to one another will do.

I have a dog.

Fairly charming.

Me – not the dog.

My ancestors will die and leave me enough money that I will never have to work yet I can still envision myself being ignored by the people on the street as I begin to worry about eating that day and having very cold feet.

I was raised with my head in books and only the most-lofty of clouds, my arse in a theatre and my feet on the pitch. I was accused of being able to do anything I wanted in life, and so began a fear of taking those few short steps are all that require me to do so.

I have taken steps; no strides.

I could do anything, and it terrifies me.

Not deserved, what some would have killed for

I need to take no more steps, as I feel only strides will do. That great single stride that begins every great adventure, only it must be one that cannot be stepped back.

I’m not sure if its anxiety or simple stage fright (on that stage that all the world is, and all the people merely players).

Being an egomaniac is a terrible thing when you’re on your own, with nobody to make laugh and only the cold stare of your disappointed self, wondering why you haven’t made it great yet.

This ‘second coming’ wasn’t worth all the hype was it?

Time to be a man about this.

First, a good hardy slap to the right (upper) cheek.

Glasses off.

Ow (Damn I’m good at that).

Second, a promise to be immediately fulfilled.

An article, written post-hence, to be properly proofread and fully uploaded to all available media.

The subject: the greatest aspects of Earth I we need to flaunt to all alien life for two reasons:

1. They are intimidated by the Haka and learn a lesson in fucking off.

2. They hear the immortal tale of the human condition of lucky suffering – ABBA’s Mamma Mia.

3. Well, read the article and you’ll find out.

I have to say, writing is a marvellous thing, as reading is also, and I think you’ll find that together we can get a bit of both jolly well done, eh?

And remember, “do not go gentle into that good night”, but make sure you give the dawn a good kicking too.

With strides only,

Sam

Little White Squares Of Essence

Posted: June 9, 2017 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.

1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.

This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)

2: They’ve already gone.

Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.

I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.

And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.

And I’m about to share it with you.

Any second now.

There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.

And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.

When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.

Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.

If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.

Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.

It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.

There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:

1. It looks cool.

Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).

I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.

It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.

Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.

To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).

Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.

There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.

2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.

You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.

The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.

This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.

And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.

That little white square of essence.

A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?

This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.

I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.

The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.

Because that’s what words cause us to do.

The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.

Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.

Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).

Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.

Objective complete.

‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.

Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.

In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.

Sam

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